Finding
by Mickey Grace
Summary: "'I still hate you.' 'Yeah, I know.'" Harry and Draco enter into a strictly enemies-with-benefits relationship, neither intending for it to become anything more, and Severus Snape is perfectly content to stay a bitter man. What happens when each of these three realize that eachother are exactly what they need? Warnings: angst, child abuse, language, slash (Drarry), Non-Magic AU
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Alright, this is my first story, so constrictive criticism is much appreciated. It's un-betaed (so far, I'd love one if anyone is interested!) so anything you can help with would be great. Also, I'd consider myself pretty well versed in British slang, but I am American, so if I make a grievous mistake let me know! Also, sorry about how short this chappy is, but introductions tend to be.

EDIT: now 'beta'ed

Disclaimer: I'm not J.K. Rowling. Wish I was, but unfortunately, Harry Potter belongs solely to her.

The evening fog was dank, and the lingering odors of cigarettes and summer rain saturated the air. The creamy mist had snaked its way into every crevice, filling alleyways and wrapping its translucent fingers around buildings. The air was heavy, dreary. In the distance, storm clouds could be made out, black as bruises. He walked at a brisk pace, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat, intent on reaching his apartment before it rained. The wetness in the air was tangible, and already he saw an emerging storm cloud through the mist that enveloped the city. The black tails of his trench coat flapped in the beguiling light breeze, and the soles of his shoes clacked on the damp cobblestones. Suddenly, icy water bit through his trousers as a small child hopped into puddle near him. Her mirthful shrieks were cut off abruptly by a sharp slap to her head, courtesy of a heavy woman towing a little boy by the hand.

"Elizabeth! Look what you've done now, you daft girl! I said not to go gallivanting about the puddles, didn't I? You apologise to the man!"

"But, Mum!"

"I'll tell your father, I swear it!"

"Sorry, Mister."

Her tone was plaintive and whiny. She hung her head, more from embarrassment at her mother than shame from her actions. He smirked as the tips of the small child's ears turned pink. She shuffled her soggy trainers across the cobblestones and shot him a pleading glance. His expression softened in a rare moment of pity. "It's quite all right." Bobbing her head frantically, a grin worked its way back onto her face.

"See? He don't even care, Mum!"

"So sorry, she's a right terror when she's eaten too many sweets. We must be off then, dreadful weather on the way, you know." The heavy woman turned her attention to the wet, grubby child behind her. "Oi! Chivy along, you, come on now!" He watched as the woman made towards the entrance to the underground, prying a fistful of damp leaves from the small boy's clutches along the way. The girl let out a whoop and bounded through another puddle. He shook his head; he was never having children.

The storm clouds were racing across the sky now, drawing nearer, bringing with them a flurry of wind and the patters of light rain. The wind shoved him violently back and slapped his face, staining his cheeks pink. He fought against it for several blocks before coming to rest in front of a dingy apartment complex. One could tell from looking at it that it had once stood proud and grand—but hard times and bad luck have a way of ruining things, and now it stood as little more than a hovel. However, it was warm, and dry, so the dimly lit lobby served as a welcoming haven from the weather outside.

After a curt nod to the half-asleep doorman, he worked his way up three flights of stairs and into room 334, hams burning only slightly. A flick of his numb fingers and the room was flooded with yellow light. His coat went on a hook to dry; he heard the telephone ring as he removed his shoes. The machine picked it up.

"Severus, my dear boy, are you there? Come now, this is Albus." There was an expectant pause. Severus made no move toward the telephone. "Ah well, I was hoping you might care to join Minerva and myself for a spot of tea tomorrow. I miss your company, it's been nearly a week since I last saw you. Besides, term starts in—oh! four days, and we have yet to discuss—what was the term you used? Dunderheads? We have yet to discuss the dunderheads you will be teaching. Your godson will be there. As will Lily's son, Harry, did you know? Food for thought, my boy, food for thought." He could almost imagine the headmaster's twinkling eyes by the tone of his voice. A soft click signaled the end of Albus's message. Severus pinched the bridge of his nose_. Lily's son_.

Mechanically, he walked through the under-furnished apartment to the kitchen and pulled a bottle of scotch from the cupboard. He grabbed a striped coffee mug he most certainly did not purchase himself before settling on the floor in front of the hearth. Outside, the storm worsened, the passing minutes punctuated by deep cracks of thunder and bright white flashes. He stacked a small pile of logs in the fireplace, bent over the hearth, lighter clenched between his teeth. Within minutes, a fire was snapping angrily, spewing gold sparks. The orange flames leaped from the logs and licked at the air in a parody of dancing, while Severus poured a healthy amount of scotch into the coffee mug. The sound of raindrops attacking the fire escape was deafening, and, strangely, it soothed him.

The headmaster's message plagued him with dark thoughts of what could have been, and the raging fire beside him did little to warm the chill in his bones. _Lily's boy_. He wondered if anything would. And so for the remainder of the night, he sat, propped against a recliner, as rain pounded against his window and wind screamed into the night, lost in memories of a red-haired girl with bottle green eyes whom he had loved with all his being.


	2. Chapter 2

He loved storms. Pressing a palm against a cold glass pane slick with condensation, he closed his eyes. With deep breaths, he brought his brow to rest alongside his hand. He reveled in the storm, savored the whistles of the wind through the naked branches, the steady thrum of rainwater stroking his roof. He threw open the window and was assaulted by a flurry of rain and wind. Snow-white neck outstretched, poised above the sill like a condemned man beneath the guillotine, he inhaled. The sweet smell of damp, fresh earth and turning pond water was heavenly; it dizzied him. Want surged through him, and his tongue darted from him mouth as his head swiveled up. Rain plastered moonlight-hued locks to his head. A happy swoop in the pit of his stomach almost brought him to let out a whoop, but a blinding flash of lightning stilled him.

One. Two. Three. FourFiveSix. Seveneightnineteneleven. When a thunder clap rang out, his heart rate spiked, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Nearly four kilometers away, then. Not close enough. Reluctantly, he pulled back into his bedroom; it wouldn't do for his father to walk in on him- it was unbecoming for a young gentlemen to behave like he was. Hair-dripping, collar of his nightshirt drenched, he laid himself down without toweling off, consequently wetting his pillow. He pulled his covers to his chin and curled on his side, his eyes fixed to the darker spatters on his carpet. The wind continued to carry the rain into the room as he drifted off to sleep.

"Draco. Draco dear, wake up. Your father— oh my!"

Draco watched through half-lidded eyes as his mother's bare foot sank into the wet, spongy patch of carpet by his window.

"What is this? The window ... how did it even... I can't even _begin_ to imagine—" She wrestled with it for a bit before managing to pull it closed with an almighty wrench. "...Carpet damage...unbelievable...the cost alone..."

Her grumbling was faint, and he doubted whether it stemmed from real concern. The carpet didn't look ruined. Besides, they were _Malfoys_; if it was a problem, he was sure it wouldn't bother them financially at all.

Turning from the window, she graced him with a warm smile. "Good morning, dear."

"Morning, mother." He gave her a small nod. Hurt flashed quickly in her eyes, quick enough that Draco thought he could have imagined it. He knew he hadn't, though, and it gave him a vindictive pleasure to know that he had caused that hurt. She patted her loose blonde curls; her hands flitted about her hair. A nervous gesture— he recognized it at once.

"Your father is waiting for you in the dining room."

He rose from his bed, doing nothing to acknowledge the fact that she had spoken to him. Pain still spasmed across her face, regardless of the inevitability of his indifference. He felt another rush of twisted pride as she left the room without another word. He deliberated with getting dressed, but ended up bounding down the stairs two steps at a time still in his pajamas. He came to rest in the dining room, where a man with hair the color of moonlight sat waiting.

"Good morning, Draco."

"Morning, Father." He was anxious. He was always anxious around his father. He should have dressed himself, at least attempted to look presentable.

"I trust you slept well?" his father asked in his deep, detached voice, eying the still-damp collar of his son's nightshirt.

He definitely should have dressed himself. He smoothed the creases along his chest absently, a nervous gesture. Lucius recognized it at once. Hid father said nothing of it though, and merely raised an eyebrow.

"Term begins in three days."

Draco nodded. His mother was standing in the doorframe hesitantly, pointedly looking out the window, where wet cattails swayed in a light breeze.

"I expect this year your marks will please me much more than the last, hm? You know that third in your year is unacceptable for people of our stature." His father smiled, though it did not touch his eyes. "But I know you will not disappoint me again."

Draco swallowed. His throat was dry. Wetting his lips, he managed to croak, "Yes, Father, of course." Images of a buck-toothed girl, her splayed fingers stretching into the air as high as the desk would allow, flashed quickly behind his eyelids. He knew, with a sinking feeling, that even if he managed second best, out-performing the bushy-haired student would not happen.

"Your mother has money, so you will get your school supplies today. You have your list?"

Draco nodded. He was looking forward to this; buying things tended to lift his spirit almost as much as rain did.

Hours later, Draco opted to walk home, to the consternation of his mother. Heavy plastic bags hung from his arms, their handles biting cruelly into his palms. Buying his supplies had done nothing to quell_ that_ inexplicable feeling that his father always gave him, and he could feel his restlessness building. Then, thankfully, he caught sight of a pudgy boy sitting on a park bench. Draco sneered.

"Neville, what on earth are you doing here all by yourself?" Neville looked up, and Draco smiled as his eyes dilated in fear. "Dear me, are you lost?"

"N-No. My gran is on her way to pick me up."

Draco's smirk grew as Neville regarded him warily. "That color looks lovely on you. It complements your stretch marks beautifully." The boy's face colored, and Draco basked in his shame. "Oh, Neville, there's no need to be embarrassed. You may be pants at losing weight, but you sure seem good at finding it."

Neville took his lower lip into his mouth and gnawed on it, milking his distress from the chapped victim. "I lost half a stone."

His voice was soft and timid, but Draco was surprised he had dared to speak at all. Suddenly, his faux-friendly tone fell, burying itself beneath his feet, which stood beside dandelions that were crushed between the sidewalk cracks. He spoke icily, and sharp.

"Lose two more, and maybe Greenpeace will quit trying to drag you back into the ocean every time you visit the beach." He felt the familiar swell of satisfaction as Neville's face crumpled, whatever pride he had had washing away, down the city drain with old rainwater, bypassing Draco's trampled, cruel façade that lay among the weeds. Draco turned on his heel and continued on his way. He felt lighter after his conversation with the thicker boy in a way that buying things hadn't achieved. The lightness was shallow, though, and before he had made it even halfway home, he felt it leaving him. Muted sunlight was shining through the grey sky, and he decided to take the underground instead of continuing to walk home, prayers for rain on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Alas, still not mine.

**A/N**: Thanks for the reviews! Especially Shadowed Foulness, for her critique. If I could marry constructive criticism, I would. (I tried to listen, I hope I did it right!)

EDIT: Thanks to my beta, **LaughableBlackStorm**, for drastically improving both this chapter and the last!

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He hated storms. _Despised_ them. Rain was relentless, and _cold_. Another crack of thunder echoed, rumbling throughout the skies; he jumped, heart racing. Water drummed hard on the shingles, deafening, so loud he could just make out the soft snores above him. He shivered and pulled the sheet tighter around his thin frame. At least he was inside now. Earlier, the Masons had been over for tea, so, naturally, after he had made the pudding, he had been put out. They had stayed for hours, the women gossiping together on the settee, taking dainty sips at aged wine with pursed rose lips.

He used his big toe to work a drenched sock off a numb foot, blue from cold.

The men had been deep into their cups; he remembered hearing Mr Mason's throaty laugh carry out through the rain as his uncle told the Japanese Golfer Joke for the third time that evening. The Masons had departed well into the night, the women with hugs and kisses on both cheeks, the men with meaty handshakes and well wishes. He had, of course, been huddled on the back porch, fruitlessly trying to escape the rain, which seemed to fall sideways, aided by sharp gusts of wind. That was how his uncle had found him: knees pulled to his chest by skinny arms, sock-clad feet overlapping, pressed against the back wall of their home. His uncle's fleshy face had been pinkened by the brandy, the colour rivalling his aunt's rouge-painted cheekbones. Despite the waves of immense relief at being let in, he had been apprehensive. Luckily, though, cheered by a successful business deal and relaxed by the alcohol in his bloodstream, his uncle had not hurt him, and even allowed him to leave the mess in the sitting room for tomorrow and escape to bed.

Now though, he almost wished he had been made to tidy up; his cupboard was colder than the rest of the house, and he was chilled from his time spent braving the elements. If he had been allowed to clean the sitting room, he supposed he might have even been lucky enough to filch a spare blanket, but that was mostly rueful thinking.

In the dark confines of his cupboard, he allowed a rare moment of despair to take root inside of him, and turned onto his back. It filled and clogged his throat, and his lips thinned. The despair squeezed his heart, tighter and tighter and tighter and tighter until he thought he would die. Sometimes he wanted to. Finally alone, he willed himself to cry, longing for that sense of catharsis that he had heard accompanied those types of breakdowns, where one supposedly released all his pain. Instead, he stared dry-eyed at the underside of the stairs above him, a hollowness in the pit of his stomach, before sheer fatigue carried him into darkness.

"Up! Get up! Now!"

Two sharp raps from his aunt on his cupboard door followed. Groggy, he placed his glasses on his nose, fiddling with the soggy tape between the lenses. He emerged from his cupboard and made his way to the kitchen, feet padding silently down the carpeted hallway. Vernon was already waiting at the table.

"Start the bacon, boy."

"Yes, sir."

He placed the skillet upon the stovetop and laid the strips side by side, leaving them to simmer on low heat. He reached into the Frigidaire for the eggs—poached for Petunia, scrambled for Dudley and Vernon. After placing bread into the toaster, he set out fruit and black pudding with the ease of long practice.

"Mummy, I want sausage links!" Dudley whined.

Petunia covered the mouthpiece of the telephone with a bony hand.

"You heard him, boy, get to it!" she snapped, voice laced with venom. "So sorry, Yvonne. As I was saying, I heard that the O'Leary boy—yes, the oldest!—I heard that he's headed for St Brutus's Secure Center... _Yes_. It's for_ Incurably Criminal Boys._ Can you believe it? Well, what can you expect, with a mother like_ that_..."

He placed a mug of coffee in front of his uncle. Two creams, three sugars. Juice for Dudley, herbal tea for his aunt, then it was back to tending the bacon.

The smell was delicious, wafting up to him tauntingly. His insides were screaming; his stomach was clawing to get out. Glancing about the kitchen, he realised no one was looking and crammed a half-cooked strip into his salivating mouth. It burned, but the pain was worth it, for it soothed the sharp, intolerable pangs of hunger to a manageable, dull ache. He chewed desperately, then wrapped the rest of the links and bacon with paper towel. He watched the soft tissue leech the grease slowly, and then placed it upon the table alongside the eggs.

Dishes, then. The sink filled with sudsy water at a lethargic pace, steam floating up to the ceiling. The cooking utensils were helpless and immobile as the scalding water swallowed them whole.

"Diddykins, term starts in three days! Eat some more rashers, you'll waste away, else. There's my sweetums."

He fought a snort as he scrubbed viciously at a pan. The idea of Dudley wasting away was ridiculous at best—he was a corpulent boy, with a lot of waist and not much neck, like his father.

"I've washed your Smeltings uniform, so it'll be nice and fresh for your first day. Oh, you're going to look _dashing_, the girls with just _swoon,_" Petunia crooned. Dudley grunted.

" 'Atta boy. You'll be the star of the boxing team, mark my words!" A meaty hand ruffled Dudley's hair. Vernon's look of pride morphed into one of disgust as he turned away from his son towards the sink. "Boy!"

Splashing water on himself in surprise, he flinched.

"Yes, sir?"

"You're allowed to get your school things after your chores today. You're damn lucky that your parents left you money for some decent schooling, because it sure as hell isn't coming outta my pocket! If I had it my way, you'd be headed to Stonewall with that Smythe lot down the road. Worthless little urchin, you are. Now, fetch the mail, then!"

"Yes, sir."

As he made his way back to the kitchen, mail in hand, Dudley lumbered out. He quickly darted out of the way and flattened himself against the wall, praying that his cousin would leave him alone, just this once. It seemed luck was in his favour today, for Dudley just waddled by him without a second glance. Petunia followed.

"Sweetums, I'll be right there. Go wait in the car. Vernon? Vernon! _Ver_—oh, dear, there you are. I'm taking Dudders to the Polkiss', then out to shop. I'll be back in time for tea!"

The door slammed, and then he was alone—with Vernon. He tensed, and braced himself for the pain he knew was coming. He was not disappointed.

Vernon's pudgy fingers wrapped around his throat and pinned him against the wall. He hissed as the half-healed welts on his back screamed in protest._ Fuck_.

"You think you're special? Just because your parents left you money for this namby-pamby private school?"

"N-no, sir."

Black dots danced across his vision. Vernon tightened his grip.

"If it wasn't in their will for you to go to this Hogwash, I'd send you to St Brutus's, with that mad O'Leary boy. You don't belong with normal folk. Because you—are—a—_freak_." Each word was punctuated by a slam of his head on the wall. "Well, boy? What are you?"

"I'm a—a freak—sir," he gasped.

"Damn right you are. And you'd do well to remember it. Now get to your chores and out of my sight, I can't stand to look at you."

"Yes, sir."

Later that evening, as the dull sun slipped behind grey clouds and below the horizon, he trudged home, arms weighted down by shopping bags. When he cut through the park, he saw a pudgy, crying boy on a bench, but pretended he hadn't. Insects swarmed the streetlamps illuminating his path, a nest of black on yellow light. He caught sight of a lone white dandelion near the entrance to the underground. He picked it, and brought it to his face. He wanted so desperately to wish on it, to blow the seedlings with all his might, but he didn't. Instead, he let it fall to the pavement. He knew better than that—wishing never helped anything. Wishes didn't come true. So he allowed his feet to carry him home, far away from false wishes and self-made promises of better tomorrows. Behind him, a breeze scattered fluffy tufts of dandelion seedlings into the night.


	4. Chapter 4

Ink-stained fingers brushed limp hair from his face as he rose from his chair. Stepping in front of his desk, back turned against the spiky letters that spelled _Professor Snape_ on the blackboard, he looked out at the sea of empty chairs and tables.

He had gone to tea with Albus and Minerva after all, Filius tagging along at the last minute too, and despite his lengthy stretches of dour silences that had been punctuated only by subtly snide remarks, everyone had had a _simply wonderful evening_ and _they all must really do it again sometime._ After, they had spent hours in The Hog's Head, a strange pub that Albus had insisted on trying out, discussing both the returning students and the first years, as well as both transfer students: Seamus Finnigan, an Irish boy from Galway, and, of course, Harry Potter. According to Minerva, the only one who had actually met the boy, he was a spitting image of his father.

He could picture it now, as he looked out onto his barren classroom: another James Potter, sauntering into the school, head high. James Potter, sitting in the back row, slouched and smirking. James Potter, flaunting disrespect and ignoring rules, flanked by faceless cronies. James Potter, taunting helpless children, bullying. Severus wouldn't stand for it, and if he would be the only one with enough foresight to put the Potter spawn in his place before he followed in his father's footsteps, then so be it. Distantly, he heard a school bell ring.

The muted roar of schoolchildren's chatter increased as a clatter of footsteps echoed down the dungeon stairs. The Granger girl was predictably the first to arrive, toting freshly sharpened pencils and half-filled, spiral-bound notebooks in a brand new shoulder bag. His lip curled. When a flash of white-blond hair caught his eye, his expression softened, marginally. His godson shot him a soft smile before turning to chat up a tanned Blaise Zabini about the summer hols. Severus noted with a twinge of pride that Draco was masking all his nervousness quite well; it was near imperceptible. A second bell tolled and now the children were sitting, still and silent. Like Minerva, he had perfected the art of controlling a classroom with very little effort. A quick head count let him know that everyone was on time.

Except for Potter. The insolent brat.

"Silence." It was unnecessary, as the children didn't dare make a sound. "Welcome to Literature and Composition. I expect—"

Suddenly, the door swung open with a bang. A boy stood in the doorway, his crop of disheveled black hair slightly windswept. Face flushed, his breathing was heavy.

"I'm sorry, sir! I didn't—"

"Sit, Mr Potter." The boy sank into the nearest chair, eyes downcast. "Detention. For tardiness and interrupting a teacher." He glared at the teen, daring him to argue.

"Yes, sir."

"As I was saying, this is Literature and Composition. I teach a rigorous course, not for the feeble-minded." He looked pointedly at Potter "For anyone who fears they cannot keep up, now is the time to excuse yourself."

The Longbottom boy gulped audibly.

"There will be no foolish games or silly activities in this class. As such, I don't expect many of you to appreciate or understand the beauty of a well-versed epic, the delicate power of prose that creeps through the human psyche, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses. However, for those select few who do possess the predisposition, I can tell you how to read with unparalleled skill, think critically, and write with a talent you never knew you possessed. Then again, maybe some of you have come to Hogwarts in possession of abilities so formidable that you feel confident enough to _not pay attention!_ Mr Potter."

The boy had been scribbling on a piece of notebook paper, but now paused, hand poised. His expression was hesitant.

"Tell me, Mr Potter, how does Arthur Miller create a mood akin to a stream of consciousness in _Death of a Salesman_?"

"I don't know, sir."

"No? Then perhaps you can describe to the class the Homeric overtones in Shakespeare's works?"

Potter shook his head.

"Pity. Which poet helped to develop the legitimacy of the vernacular during the Middle Ages?"

"I don't know, sir." He gestured toward the Granger girl, who was squatting in her seat, waggling her fingers. "But I think she does, you should try her."

"Another detention, Potter, for your insolence. Chaucer is credited with legitimising the vernacular, Miller uses analepsis to create the distinctive mood, and— well? Why aren't you all writing this down?" There was a flurry of pencils and paper as his students hastily attempted to comply. "Now, turn to page 394 and read. You have the remainder of the hour to properly analyse the tone of the poem and write a response. It will be collected at the end of class. Begin."

The students bent low over their desks, reading furiously. Severus seized the opportunity to examine his class uninterrupted.

There was Granger, insufferable as ever. Bushy hair wild, she worked her lower lip between those ridiculous buckteeth while she wrote. He marvelled at the irony; her parents were _dentists_, for god's sake. She was sitting beside Weasley, who was looking scruffy with his used and patched school blazer and tattered textbook, both doubtless seconds from one of his older brothers—the Weasley boys came in droves. Arther must have been extraordinarily potent.

He scanned the rest of the classroom, eyes sweeping over Lavender Brown, who was tugging her neckline down in an attempt to gain the attentions of the Weasley boy. He lingered briefly over Longbottom, who was gnawing on the head of his eraser, brow creased. Honestly, the boy's aptitude for anything academic, save botany, was deplorable. Severus suspected a learning disability, perhaps dyslexia if his performance in language arts was anything to go by, but the grandmother he lived with vehemently rejected any testing. That didn't stop her from berating the boy at every turn, though—parent night had been _nightmare_. Longbottom kneaded his sweaty, clenched knuckles into the swells of flesh below his ribcage, and frowned at his paper. Severus tore his gaze away before he allowed himself to feel anything akin to pity; his eyes fell upon Potter.

Ah.

Here was someone he most certainly didn't feel pity for. Even though the boy was just sitting there, Severus felt his chest fill with contempt. He studied him. Potter did bare a remarkable resemblance to his father, but there were differences. His thin hair looked somewhat brittle, and more unruly. Severus noted with an inexplicable twinge that the boy was skinny, abnormally so. Frail wrists poked out from his school blazer, and his cheekbones were prominent, more than James or Lily's had ever been. His eyes travelled up the contours of the sunken cheeks, and it was then that he saw them.

Her eyes.

_"Let's build a fort, Sev. You can be the king, yeah? And I will be the queen!"_

They were dark pools of emerald, deep and expressive behind sellotaped glasses. He glimpsed them only for a moment before the boy bowed his head over his work once more, and it was like the loss of the sun. Grief choked him, rooting him to his seat, although at the moment all he wanted to do was march over, grasp the boy's chin, and bathe in the sunlight of her gaze again. Then, unexpectedly, he was seized with a desire to hit the boy. To bring a hard hand onto that gaunt face—to either force Potter to look at him or look away, he wasn't sure. So strong was this desire that he gripped the arms or his chair for fear he would actually do it.

_"It can be magic. We can play pretend."_

"Time. Give me your papers." He was startled by the even tenor of his voice; he had not expected to sound so controlled—this inner turmoil was tearing him apart. He had needed to say _something,_ though, anything to bring him back to this classroom and out of magical forts made from bedsheets in the Evans' basement.

Potter finished writing as the bell tolled, and he silently placed his work on Severus's desk as the other students filed out of the classroom.

"This is late, Potter. You will receive no credit," Severus sneered. He could not hit the boy, no. But this, this he could do.

"What? But—"

"No arguments. Report directly after school for your detention. I will not tolerate tardiness; for every minute you are late, I will add a week of detention. Surely even your simple mind can comprehend something as basic as punctuality." His tone was laced with disdain. Potter's eyes glittered strangely.

"Yes, sir." And he left.

Severus was infuriated with the boy's lack of response. Though, if he was honest with himself, any response would have left him infuriated.

"Uncle Severus? Are you listening to me?" His godson looked at him in concern. Severus gathered himself.

"I'm sorry, Draco. What were you saying?"

"Father says you are to give me a lift home today. He can't pick me up from the station, and the manor is a dreadful walk. Father also says you are welcome to dinner, if you like."

"Yes, Draco. That's fine."

Severus didn't notice Draco leave, and felt oddly bereft, even as his next class took their seats. A wave of fatigue washed over him, and he sank into his chair. He felt haggard, older than ever before, and when he closed his eyes, he saw rich emerald instead of black.

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A/N: Sorry about the wait, between finals and funerals, I just haven't had time to write! Also, this is a little rough, I write chapters all in one go, and don't have a beta, so I apologize in advance for any mistakes.

EDIT: Beta found.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Here it is! Chapter 5! Also, I have good news and bad news. The bad news is I'm going to be spending my summer on a little island in Lake Michigan, with no home wifi, and I'm working two jobs, so updates will probably come slower than usual. The good news is... I HAVE A BETA! Many thanks to **LaughableBlackStorm **for volunteering. She is genius, and already making me a much better writer! Without further ado, read on- and review!

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Harry Potter was an enigma.

When he had first heard that there were not one, but two new kids, he was intrigued; transfer students were uncommon. Students who went to Hogwarts began at the age of eleven, and stayed for life. Everyone knew everyone else, and their younger brother. So it had come as a great surprise when Uncle Severus told him that in addition to the usual group of first years, there were two more fifth years they were expected to welcome: Harry Potter and Seamus Finnigan. He quickly lost interest in the Finnigan boy, though. Attractive and funny, the sandy-haired boy had seemed all right. Then, Draco learned he had a penchant for catching things on fire and was glued to Dean Thomas's hip.

Potter, on the other hand, was a different story entirely. Draco's godfather loathed the boy, that much was obvious, though he didn't know why. Potter had yet to say a word to anyone, save the teachers. Even then, it was just a "Yes, sir" or "No, ma'am". Draco couldn't figure him out. During Arithmacy, Professor Vector sat them next to each other and Potter didn't even acknowledge him. When Vector called on him for an answer, he replied with a polite "I don't know, sir", even though Draco could clearly see the correct figures scratched on his paper. Harry Potter was an enigma, indeed.

"Skeeter's mad is what's going on! Do you believe the rubbish she's coming out with? Me mam thinks it's all true, though..."

He tuned out Finnigan's lilting tirade and looked around him. Not much had changed since the last school year; four parallel, long tables stretched from one end of the dining hall to the other, and a head table sat on a raised platform at the front.. The ceiling arched high like a cathedral, and was painted to mimic a summer sky. He could see a reflection of himself in the sheen of furniture polish on the cherry-wood table he sat at. He stole a glance at Potter. The boy was sitting at the other end of the table, transfixed by the great mounds of food piled atop silver platters. Draco turned to Blaise.

"What do you know about Potter?" he asked.

"The new kid? I dunno. Seems like an unfriendly bloke, though. Doesn't talk much." Draco nodded. "He's not so bad looking," Blaise said, smirking.

"Shut your fucking trap, Zabini. Those rumors are bullocks."

Blaise's reply was cut short when the headmaster stood and cleared his throat. The hall quieted at once.

"To our newcomers," said Dumbledore in a ringing voice, stretching his hands wide, a beaming smile on his lips, "welcome! To our old hands—welcome back! There is a time for speech-making, and this is not it. Tuck in!"

Draco rolled his eyes. Dumbledore was mad. Plates were soon filled with boiled potatoes ("These are better than me mam's!"), roast chicken, rolls, steak and kidney pudding, peas, and a number of other delicious foods. Students laughed over half-filled goblets, exchanging stories about the summer holidays. Boys boasted about the number of girls they had shagged, and girls giggled and whispered into cupped hands.

"...Rubbish! Look! I'm ten times tanner than you..."

"...Oh, the Alps were just _stunning_; you really have to come with me some time..."

"...Well of course she was the one who ended things, Cormac was a complete arse..."

"...McLaggen was sloshed, completely pissed. Dumped her in front of everyone. Funniest night of my life, I swear..."

Draco ended a conversation with Pansy Parkinson, rather rudely, and looked over at Potter. He was eating slowly, with closed eyes. His plate was filled impossibly high; there was no way he would ever finish it. For the rest of lunch Draco watched as Potter picked away at his food, barely making a dent in what he had set aside for himself. Potter paused, an odd expression on his face. Draco continued to watch as he grabbed a handful of rolls and stuffed them into his messenger bag. Strange. Granger was the only other person who noticed, and Potter glared at her cocked eyebrow. A sharp elbow in his side alerted Draco that Dumbledore was standing again.

"Now that we are all fed and watered, I have a few start of term notices to give you. First years should note that the forest on the grounds is forbidden to all pupils. A few of our older students would do well to remember that as well." His eyes turned to the Weasley twins, and he smiled good-naturedly. "I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, our caretaker, to tell you all that the list of objects forbidden in the corridors has this year been extended to include yo-yos, Frisbees, boomerangs, and footballs. The full list comprises some four hundred and thirty-seven items, I believe, and can be viewed in Mr. Filch's office, if anybody would like to check it. Have a wonderful rest of the day, and may this term be both eventful and instructive. Now, off you trot!"

The grating noise of chairs being pushed back was lost in the chatter that flared again when the headmaster sat back down. He scanned the crowd for Potter, but failed to see those unruly raven locks amidst the mass of bodies pouring out the double doors.

The remainder of his day passed sluggishly, and he was disappointed that he didn't have Potter in his History class; he would have proven to be a welcome distraction from Binns's droning. Though why he wanted Harry Potter to distract him, he didn't quite yet know.

Finally, the school day drew to a close. Physical Education was his last class, and then he would be free to leave for home with his godfather. He walked outside to the football pitch. It was grand, with lush green grass and crisp white lines. Rows upon rows of raised wooden bleachers surrounded the pitch. They circled the field almost entirely, and it gave off a distinct feeling of a gladiator arena. To Draco, it felt like coming home. Teen boys mulled about, waiting on the arrival of Madam Hooch. He noticed with a thrill that Potter was among them.

"All right, lads," Madam Hooch barked, startling him. He hadn't even noticed that she had turned up. "We're going to be playing a bit of football today—shirts and skins. I want a fair game. Malfoy—" He looked up. "You're captain of the shirts. Boot—yes you, Terry!—skins. The rest of you, line up! Pick your teams, boys. Malfoy, you first."

"Potter." He didn't know what had possessed him to say it, but it flew from his lips before he even thought of stopping it. Potter trotted over, his expression of initial shock fading to one of intense relief.

"Ron."

"Blaise."

"Ernie."

"Nott."

This continued until only Longbottom was left, who Terry grudgingly accepted onto his team. Draco ended up being dumped with Anthony Goldstein, an awful player who thought himself an excellent forward, and Justin Finch-Fletchley, who wasn't all that bad at defense, but was a right prat. Hooch blew her whistle, and they were off.

The game was played heatedly. They were rough—shoving and kicking and grabbing and throwing elbows and tearing clothing. Hooch either was blind as a bat or didn't care. Wayne Hopkins even managed to bite Goyle's hand—though that was arguably self-defense. The earth was still soggy from the recent rainstorm, and mud was caked into their trainers, specked up their backs, and smeared across their legs, arms and faces. It was a hard match, and a sweet win. It turned out that Draco's impulsive decision to pick Potter first had paid off; the kid was_ fast_. He handled the ball well, if inexpertly, and couldn't be caught. Once Draco's team realized that, they just fed him the ball again and again. Potter couldn't shoot for shit, but was untouchable when it came to speed. Draco stationed Goldstein down at the other end to score for Potter, and after that, victory came easily. A whistle signaled the end of the match, and his team erupted into cheers. The look on Weasley's face was priceless.

"Potter, come over here!" Hooch hollered.

He jogged to her diligently. "Yes, ma'am?"

"You ever played ball before?"

"No, ma'am."

What? What kid hasn't played football before? Moreover, if he truly hadn't played, how the fuck did he get so bloody good?

"Well, your shooting leaves something to be desired, but that can be coached. You'd make a decent sweeper, with all that speed, and you being so small. Or maybe a winger. The season's already started, but Wood would skin me alive if I let you slip through our fingers. Come on, let's talk to the headmaster about getting you on the team."

"Wha—? No! No thank you, ma'am."

Draco was incredulous. Potter was being _offered_ a position on the team—not even having to try out—and he was turning it _down_? He was barking!

"Potter, there is nothing to be nervous about. You'd make a fine player with a bit of practice."

"I don't have time for practice, ma'am. Thank you, though, for the offer, ma'am."

"No time, eh? You let me think about this, Potter."

"I, er—yes, ma'am." Potter trudged back to the showers with the other boys. The boys engaged in playful banter while they changed, and Draco made sure to throw in a few cutting remarks about Neville's appearance.

"Longbottom, you have such a striking face. Tell us, how many times were you struck there?" The other boys laughed, and Draco ripped out another. "Ah, I understand—you fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down! Remember when he only had one chin, boys?"

While everyone jeered, Weasley and Thomas pointedly ignored the scene; they didn't want Draco's barbed tongue directed at them. Potter, though, looked at him with disgust, picked up his uniform, and marched to the bathroom to change. Draco's high dampened slightly. After showering and changing, all of the boys, save Harry and Draco, marched back through Hogsmeade to the station to catch the train home.

"Hey, you wanna toke?" Crabbe waved a plastic baggie in Draco's face.

"Nah, Snape's taking me home today, maybe another time." He had no intention of lighting up with Crabbe, now or in the future. Drinking was all right, but pot made him slow and lazy, and Draco had just barely secured a spot on the football team this year. Botching that up would mean hell to pay from his father, he was sure. He bid farewell to his classmates and walked alongside Potter back up to the castle. He noticed with distaste that Potter hadn't showered, which, honestly, was _revolting_. He pushed that aside though, and extended his hand to the boy once outside Snape's office.

"The name's Malfoy. Draco Malfoy, of the Rotherstchild Malfoys."

"Oh." His voice was hard to read. "I'm Harry. Potter." He took his hand and shook it briefly. Draco was pleased to note that it was a good handshake, not at all limp and floppy.

"I can show you around here if you'd like. Introduce you to people. You don't want to go around making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there."

Potter's eyes turned hard. He ripped his hand from Draco's grasp.

"I think I can decide the right sort for myself, thanks," he said in a clipped, cold voice, before turning on his heel and stalking into Snape's room for his detention.

Draco stood there for a moment, uncomprehending. After another beat of disbelief, Draco was consumed with rage. His heartbeat quickened, and he began to breathe heavily, like a bull. His hands were shaking. How _dare_ he. Turn down _him_, a _Malfoy_, would he? Draco vowed to make Potter regret his choice, the fucking tosser. He decided right then that he hated Harry Potter—hated him immediately. Who did he think he was? The nerve! _No one_ talked that way to Draco Malfoy.

He followed Harry Potter into his godfather's study, fuming and furious, ranting in his head. And as he listened to Severus berate his newly dubbed nemesis, he tried to ignore the horrible embarrassment that had cropped up inside of him.


	6. Chapter 6

On a sunny day in the July of Harry's tenth year, he was introduced to a feeling he had never fully experienced before—a feeling that he also would not experience for many years to come: he felt the acute sensation of excitement. It was vastly different from anticipation, which he had known for years now, as it always accompanied the inevitable fear in the tense moments before his uncle's fist came down; this excitement was not tinged with nervousness, but with awe, and a raw, child-like glee. The feeling peaked as his uncle Vernon's company car, a generous Christmas bonus, slid down a rain-slicked street not far from Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour and Bakery, Harry's favourite place to date.

He hadn't seen Mr Fortescue in months, but during the school year, he could expect a sweet roll tossed from an open window into his waiting, bony hands each morning. When he was very small, perhaps six or seven years old, he hadn't been very good at earning his food, so more often than not he had gone without. It had been a chilly November morning when Mr Fortescue found him rooting through an alley dumpster on his way to primary school, stuffing burnt ends of bread and soggy bits of cones into his mouth while throwing frightened looks over his shoulder. Mr Fortescue didn't ask any questions, just disappeared inside a slightly crooked door Harry assumed led to the kitchen. Harry didn't know what to think, and stood, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a nervous frenzy, unsure if the old man would come back, and if he did, whether or not he would bring pain. Mr Fortescue did return, a slightly charred sweet roll in each hand, eyes dark and strangely damp, and Harry bolted without even thanking him after Mr Fortescue had given him the bread.

After that day, it had become an unspoken ritual for Harry to receive the burnt rolls every morning. Though, as he had grown older, he had come to understand that Mr Fortescue must have continued to burn them on purpose, for there was no way rolls were burnt that regularly, like clockwork. Neither had ever said a word about it.

However, as he and his relatives maneuvered down the street, the mounting excitement for the day to come eclipsed all thoughts of Mr Fortescue, burnt sweet rolls, and silent acts of kindness in his mind.

They were heading to the zoo, a place Harry had only heard of, to celebrate Dudley's birthday, and it was only a rare stroke of luck that allowed him to be sitting on the shiny leather seat in the back of A Very Expensive Car instead of at Mrs Figg's house. Ever since he had passed out after a weekend in his cupboard—it turned out the vent didn't let in much oxygen—he spent the days his relatives went on outings with Mrs Figg, a mad old woman with far too many cats who lived two streets over. She was nice, and gave him crayons to colour with, even when he outgrew those types of activities, and let him eat microwave dinners three times a day. He usually ended up getting sick from all the food in his shrunken stomach, but that never bothered him. He knew he shouldn't have been happy that she had broken her leg, but the prospect of actually going to the zoo and seeing live animals other than Tibbles and Snowflake and Mr Paws filled his chest with a mirthful tightness, so he decided to suspend his sympathy towards her until this day was finished.

The day started off as one of the best of his life: when they arrived, Aunt Petunia bought him a cheap lemon ice pop because she didn't have time to whisk him away before the smiling lady in the van could ask him what he wanted; then, Dudley had a fit at the zoo resturaunt because his Knickerbocker Glory didn't have enough ice cream on top, so Harry was allowed to finish it while the lady prepared him another one.

He should have known, though, that it was too good to last. When they reached the dark, cool reptile house, Dudley quickly found the largest animal in the area, a sleeping Brazilian Boa Constrictor curled up atop a heated rock. After several failed attempts to rouse it, Dudley grew very frustrated, and nothing good ever came about when Dudley was very frustrated. Sure enough, he ended up wrapping his meaty fingers around a souvenir paperweight displayed in a neat stack at the centre of the room, and hurling it with all his might at the pane separating the snake from the people. The pane cracked, and tendrils of white spread from the projectile lodged in it—though not much else happened; the snake didn't even stir. There was a lot of screaming, and three frantic teenaged zoo employees bumbled about at a loss, but before Harry could witness the full aftermath of Dudley's temper tantrum he was roughly pulled from the reptile house and marched to the car. There, he was subject to a harshly whispered verbal lashing about "harassing poor Diddykins" and "causing a ruckus" and "you just wait till we get home, boy". Then he was thrown into the boot of the car. The ride back to Privet Drive was disorienting and uncomfortable; even Very Expensive Cars had dark trunks, pitch as night, and he was cramped, hot, and each bump and sharp turn sent his head careening into the underside of the hood. It was then that he decided never to get excited again; it was much too close to hoping, and excitement and hope only led to disappointment.

* * *

It was for this reason —a hard-learned lesson—that he tried to squelch the excitement festering behind his ribcage as he sat in the back of his uncle's same car many years later. While the train station was a noticeably less appealing destination than the zoo, the places a train could take someone were much more thrilling than a sleeping boa constrictor. Despite his attempts to muffle his budding excitement, he felt the feeling overtake him as they neared their destination, and the sense of déjà vu was unsettling. Harry's fingers clenched and unclenched, twisting around each other, intertwining. The idea of a school where Dudley and his gang couldn't bully him, where everyone wore a uniform so no spindly child in stained, oversized rags would be mocked, and where he was already equipped with not only notebooks and pencils but a messenger bag as well, was both exciting and daunting. He knew, of course, that he wouldn't be permitted to succeed; a glowing kindergarten report card and the resulting punishment had taught him that lesson quickly enough. However, the idea of a teacher who had not been warned in advance about how disturbed he was, and what a problem child he was, was much better than anything he had had before.

"Don't count on a ride every morning, boy," Vernon said gruffly. "Just because I've got a meeting over on this end of the city today doesn't mean you're to laze about in the morning and skive off your duties. I'm not your goddamn chauffeur."

"Yes, sir." Harry's hands stilled for a moment, then resumed their frantic twisting. Vernon grunted, and pulled over in front of the station.

"Out."

Harry grabbed his bag and stepped out from the car, his stomach climbing up into his throat, knotting. He wasn't sure if it was a pleasant or unpleasant feeling.

"And find your own way home!" Vernon called over the screech of the engine as he peeled away from the curb.

Harry checked his bag for the sixth time that morning to be sure he had everything. He thought it was a little ridiculous to take a train to and from school, but he supposed that maybe this was what really rich people did. He slung his bag over his shoulder and began searching for the right platform. He spotted it almost immediately, swarmed with children and teenagers and stray parents. He moved behind a group of kids with flaming red hair, all hollering at and over each other. A plump, red-haired woman was by far the loudest, and addressed each of what Harry assumed were her children in a shrill and stressed voice.

She turned to two identical teens. "Now, you two—this year, you behave yourselves. If I get one more letter telling me you've—you've blown up a toilet, or—"

"Blown up a toilet? We've never blown up a toilet."

"Great idea though, thanks, Mum."

The gangly twins seemed funny, and Harry imagined that maybe in a different life, one without dead parents and horrid relatives, he would have liked them, maybe even befriended them. Heart hammering, Harry followed the family—and that was when he saw it.

A scarlet steam engine was waiting, a sign overhead reading Hogwarts Express. Smoke from the engine drifted over the heads of the chattering crowd, and friends called out to one another over the babble of the morning commute. Seeing the train, at last, made everything seem suddenly very real. He was going to school—a school far away from Dudley and his aunt and uncle, where he had a trust fund filled with money for him to spend on tuition and supplies and his very own uniform. He could scarcely believe this was actually happening; he half-expected Vernon to jump from behind a pillar with a nasty smile and shout, "Thought something good could happen to you, did you, boy? Well, that'll teach you to hope! Get in your cupboard!"

The first few compartments in the train were already packed with students, some hanging out of the windows and talking to their families, others arguing over seats. Harry pressed on through the crowd until he found an empty compartment near the end of the train. He sat awkwardly, and looked at the closed window. He stood and walked over to it, fingers hovering above the sill. He was tempted to throw it open, lean out, and wave goodbye—to whom, he didn't know—but he quickly dismissed that idea.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself. He sat again, and felt very small in the empty compartment, half-hoping, half-fearing someone would enter and introduce themselves. His heart jolted when the door slid open, but it was only a woman pushing a trolley, who asked him if he wanted anything—bagels, muffins, sweets, or fruit. He had to shake his head. His empty stomach grumbled loudly, but his empty pockets were louder. A short time later, the train slowed, and then came to a rocking halt.

The next few minutes were a whirl; he was caught up in the rush of students leaving the train. Warm bodies pressed in on him and he was ushered along by a big, burly man with a tangled black beard through a strange little town and past a wrought iron gate. Everyone was too loud—too close. If only they would all just stop touching him.

Then, he was suddenly looking up at a looming structure and the doors to a castle. The woman who had come to tell him about Hogwarts during the summer—McDonnell? McGonyall?—had mentioned that it was a restored castle, but he had never pictured something like this. It was colossal, one of the biggest buildings Harry had ever seen, with great arched doors and four grand towers that poked up into the sky, piercing the clouds. Morning fog swirled around the base of it, white on grey brick. In the distance, past sloping hills of freshly trimmed grass, he could just make out what seemed to be an arena of sorts. On the other side was a small lake, the water still and dark. Scattered trees dotted the ground past a small hut and into a thick, deep forest of which Harry couldn't see the end. The students traipsed indoors, and Harry didn't understand why they were all moving so fast. He was overwhelmed.

Inside, he had to crane his head to see the ceiling; it seemed to go up forever. An elaborate chandelier sparkled, throwing champagne ribbons of light off marble and stone. Staircases sprouted and winded, going in every direction, with gaslight lamps rooted to the pillars lining the way. Everyone set off in groups, comparing white papers Harry knew to be schedules. He fumbled with his, pulling it from his bag with clumsy fingers, and strained to read it. Literature, with somebody named Snape. It didn't have a room number on it! Just the letter "D"—what the hell?

"Excuse me—" Harry reached out to tap the shoulder of the girl directly in front of him, but she was chatting with her friend and walked away, leaving him stabbing at the air with his fingers.

"Er, I—um, could you plea—" Harry tried again, turning to a small kid who squeaked and scampered away. Why would no one help him? He didn't know where he was supposed to be _going_. No one was listening to him! A bell tolled and the crowd thinned considerably; students scurried from the halls. Harry felt panic well up inside him. It bubbled in his gut, and his hands began to shake.

"Potter! Why are you not going to class? The dungeons are on the other side of the building!"

Relief flood through him instantly. He recognised the voice of the woman who had come to deliver his Hogwarts acceptance letter and give him his list of supplies. He looked up just long enough to take in the sight of the stern-looking woman with greying hair and lips pressed into a thin line, before training his eyes back to the floor. Finally, _someone_ who would tell him where to _go_.

"Sorry, ma'am. Could you… I mean—it just says… I don't know where to go, ma'am."

She impatiently directed him towards his classroom, located somewhere she called the _dungeons_—which, frankly, slightly unnerved him. He knew that the school was in a castle and all, but it was fucking huge; surely, there was room for classrooms elsewhere than in a former dungeon. For a frightening moment he wondered if it had even been redecorated, and envisioned trying to learn in a room with manacles dangling on the walls, but quickly chastised himself for being so stupid—of course they had redecorated it, if the rest of the school was anything to go by. He repeated McGonagall's directions under his breath and ran there as fast as he could, but he heard another bell toll as he was descending the last of the staircases. _Fuck_. He threw open the door and started apologising, but was immediately ordered to sit by a tall, menacing figure dressed in black.

The lesson went _horribly._ It was clear that the teacher hated him, and he thought that maybe he had been wrong and Petunia really had called and warned his professors about him. The man stared at him with such loathing, such pure, untempered disgust, that Harry found himself unable to look at the man for more than a fleeting moment. He knew that expression; it was exactly how Marge looked at him whenever she visited—as if he was a bug, something to be crushed underfoot. Then, the man suddenly started firing off questions at him, a nasty sneer twisting his lips. Harry felt lost. Was he supposed to know all this already? When he wasn't able to answer _anything_, and pointed out that another girl knew the answers, he was given _another_ detention. Vernon would have something to say about that, he was sure. Harry spent the remainder of the lesson feeling incredibly useless and stupid, so he worked twice as hard on his written analysis, trying anything to prove his worth. When the man refused to collect his paper, just because it was handed to him after the bell, Harry felt ripe injustice flare in his chest, but didn't say a word except for a forced, "Yes, sir."

It appeared that his first lesson had set the tone for the rest of the day. He was late to nearly every class—the staircases were moving, he _swore_. On top of that, he sicked up after lunch from overeating, and had been caught stuffing a handful of rolls into his messenger bag by the bushy-haired know-it-all that was in nearly _all_ of his classes. By last period, he was ready to forget about Hogwarts entirely. They were going to be playing football, which he had never played before but knew to be a rough game; the welts on his back were in the last stages of healing, and he'd be damned if some wanker who thought himself hot stuff on the field would fuck that up for him.

"All right, lads, we're going to be playing a bit of football today—shirts and skins. I want a fair game. Malfoy, you're captain of the shirts. Boot—yes you, Terry!—skins. The rest of you, line up! Pick your teams, boys. Malfoy, you first."

Oh, _shit_. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

He had to be a shirt. He _had _to. His mind whirled, rapidly supplying him with excuses. He was allergic to the grass. He was albino. No, Hooch would never believe those. He'd just tell her—

"Potter."

What? _Him? _He didn't know what was on with this blond kid, but he definitely wasn't going to say anything. Not if it gave him a spot on the shirts—thank God. He let out a breath he hadn't even realised he was holding and jogged off to the field with the rest of his team.

As it turned out, football was easy. All he had to do was run, and everyone suddenly started passing the ball to him. It was a little hard trying to get the ball into the net, but the blond kid soon ordered one of his teammates to score for them, so it wasn't so bad. Afterwards, Madam Hooch even tried to get Harry on the team. It must have been a pretty poor team if they wanted someone like him on it. It didn't matter, though; there was no way Vernon would let him spend his time practicing sports at Hogwarts when he could be home cleaning or cooking. He just nodded and agreed that Madam Hooch could try to figure things out if she wanted to—he didn't want to anger her; she could really fuck things up for him if she wanted to.

In the showers, the blond boy who had captained their team was picking on a fat kid named Neville. Neville looked about ready to cry, and no one said anything to stand up for him—some even laughed and went along with it. The blond kid's eyes glittered. Harry was hit with such a strong feeling of disgust that he picked up his clothes and went to change in the bathroom. He had planned to do that anyway—there was no way anyone was seeing his scars—but at least now it looked like he was making some sort of statement. Maybe the fat kid wouldn't feel so alone.

He walked back up to the castle with the blond boy, masking his distaste. Apparently Snape was taking the boy home, but that didn't mean he had to socialise with Harry on the way up. He had thought he'd made it pretty clear that he didn't like the kid, and he most certainly didn't want to make conversation with him, especially with the way he was talking- but the boy stuck next to him all the way up to the castle. By the time they had reached Snape's door, the blond was throwing his name around, shaking Harry's hand, and telling him he could introduce him to the right people. Harry was suddenly horrified to be touching him. _Draco_, of the _Rotherstchild_ Malfoys, reminded him so vividly of Dudley (albeit a smarter Dudley) that he had to physically fight the nausea, disgust, and fear that built up inside him. What a fucking prat.

After rejecting _Draco_, he spun on his heel away from a speechless Malfoy and entered Snape's office.

"Potter! If I am not mistaken, you earned this detention for insolence and tardiness. Do you fancy yourself funny, then, showing up late? I assure you, I do not find it amusing. "

Harry glanced at the clock and felt his heart sink. Maybe if Snape would just let him explain…

"I'm sorry, sir. I had to come up all the way from the pitch, and Madam Hooch wanted to talk to me about joining the football team, and—"

"Oh, the _football _team? Well, why didn't you say so? How extraordinarily like your father you are, Potter," Snape cut him off, his eyes glinting. "He, too, was exceedingly arrogant. A small amount of talent on the field made him think he was a cut above the rest of us too. Strutting around the place with his friends and admirers ... The resemblance between you is uncanny. Let me tell you something, Potter: just because you are on the_ football_ team now, doesn't mean you can saunter in at whatever time pleases you!"

"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."

Snape gestured to a rag and bucket in the corner, and instructed him to clean the room and organise the supply closet. Harry thought this wasn't too bad; if he was lucky, he might even get home early enough that Vernon would let him off with only a verbal lashing and extra chores. He set to work straight away—the sooner he could get back to number four, the better. The methodical rhythm of a hard bristled brush scrubbing sudsy circles on the floor lulled him into a familiar stupor. He had already finished the floor and half the desks before he realised that Snape and Malfoy were talking. He was intrigued; he still didn't know why Malfoy was there, so he slowed his strokes to listen.

"I'm pretty sure we're having gammon steaks and potatoes. Mum wants to celebrate back to school and all. Personally, I don't see any reason to get excited."

Snape's scowl looked less pronounced than before, and his lips might have even quirked slightly at the corners. That was probably as amused as he got, Harry thought.

"No, I don't suppose you would."

Harry noticed the soft expression in Snape's eyes, and wondered again how those two knew each other.

"I missed you a lot this summer, you know. You don't come around as much anymore," said Draco.

Suddenly, Snape turned and met Harry's stare icily. Harry became aware that he was sitting completely still, scrub brush lying limp in his hand, staring at the both of them. Ducking his head, he blushed darkly; he hadn't even realised he had stopped working. He returned to cleaning with a new vigour. Malfoy and Snape went back to talking, quieter this time, so Harry couldn't make out anything but soft murmurs. Jealousy burned in him; Malfoy got to go home to his mother and gammon steaks tonight, while Harry got to go home to Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and leftover scraps—if he was lucky. It just wasn't fair. Harry decided he hated him, prancing around all high and mighty with his perfect hair and perfect clothes and perfect life. Fuck that. Fuck Malfoy. Fuck everything.

He used his anger as fuel and finished the room in record time, even though Snape made him reorganise the supply closet _three times_ before it was to his liking. Tired, and sore, and just done with this day on a whole, he was more than ready to head home, even if it meant returning to his lousy relatives. All he wanted to do was curl up in his cupboard and sleep.

Outside, the last of the sunlight was slipping below the horizon, and a hazy moon rose into the nighttime fog.

Snape turned to him, a nasty sneer twisting his features. "It's a shame you dallied so much, Potter. The last train left," he said, checking his watch, "an hour and a half ago. It seems you're going to have to call for a ride. I hope your guardians aren't too displeased with you. Getting into trouble on the first day, tsk, tsk. Go ahead—use the class phone, right now."

Harry felt his heart sink. He knew what Snape was doing. He was making sure Harry didn't have a chance to lie about why he was late, or complain about why he was in detention—not that he would have anyway. But he had hoped that he wouldn't have to face Vernon's wrath until he got back to number four; besides, admitting he was late because he had gotten detention was practically suicidal. He swallowed.

He pressed the numbers with shaky fingers, and tried to hide his nervousness. He prayed Aunt Petunia would answer; she didn't like to speak to him too long, usually. He pressed the black head of the telephone into his ear with unnecessary force and held his breath. Vernon picked up after the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Uncle Vernon! It's Harry." He forced a false note of cheer into his voice. It sounded fake even to his ears.

"Where the hell have you been, boy? Petunia had to cook dinner _herself_. You better be calling to tell me you're in the hospital, or I'll put you there myself, I swear to God."

Harry forced a shaky laugh. "Oh, no, I'm just fine! I'm sorry I worried you and Aunt Petunia so much, I just had to stay after school a bit." He stole a glance at Malfoy and Snape out of the corner of his eye.

"What the fuck are you talking about? Listen here, you ungrateful little shit, I don't care if the Queen of fucking England threw you a birthday party—you get your sorry ass home. _Now_."

"I got detention from one of my teachers—I was late coming to class. But now I need a ride home, is that okay?" The knuckles wrapped around the phone were turning white.

"No it is bloody well not _okay_! You can fucking walk home. And when you get here—then, we'll have a little talk." With that, Vernon hung up. Harry forced his shaking hands to still. "Little talks" were never good. In fact, they usually didn't involve much talking at all.

"Oh, thanks! I'll be waiting by the front gates." He paused, listening to the dial tone for a moment. "Love you too, Uncle Vernon. See you soon." Harry placed the phone back in its holder and turned around. Snape merely raised an eyebrow.

"Can we go now? I'm hungry," Draco said.

The trio walked up from the dungeon, Harry trailing a yard or so behind. Another flare of jealousy shot through him when Snape tousled Malfoy's hair and squeezed his shoulder affectionately. Harry tried to remember the last time someone had touched him without causing pain. The cashier's fingers had brushed his when she had given him his change three days ago, but other than that, it had been a long, long time. He watched as the two climbed into a black car together and sped off, with nothing but a curt "Mr Potter" from Snape. He knew it was about a forty minute train ride from London to Hogwarts, but wasn't sure how far of a walk that was. Maybe he could hitchhike, so long as he didn't climb in with some deranged sociopath. With his luck, it was a definite possibility. He waited until he was sure Malfoy and Snape were gone, then started the long trek home.

* * *

A/N: A bit of Snape's dialogue (when he compares Harry to his father) is very similar to the book. I just couldn't help myself- it's too perfect! (There are a couple lines of the Weasley's as well that are the same) I mean no harm by using these. Nothing is mine.

Also, sorry about the wait. Things have been pretty crazy. I get home on the 12th though (where I will actually have access to a computer!), so I should be posting sooner than this chapter came up!

I've had several people ask why this starts when Harry is older, and the answer is that this will eventually be a Drarry, so I believe they need to be mature enough and old enough to enter that type of relationship. As to why Harry didn't go to Hogwarts right away, that will be answered in the coming chapters. (Don't hold your breath though, it's not very dramatic or important)

Many thanks to my amazing beta, who continues to surprise me with her eye for detail, and talent for both writing and editing. Are all beta's as good as she is, or am I just lucky?

as always... Read and Review!


	7. Chapter 7

"Longbottom, are you completely inept? We are almost a month into term and you have still failed to meet even the most basic level of mediocrity." He slapped the paper, littered with red markings, face up onto the desk. "Your continued stupidity astounds me. Poetry was the dominant genre in the _Romantic_ period, _not _the Victorian. Furthermore, if that wasn't bad enough, you go on to _repeatedly_ mix up the three Brontë sisters. Are you being deliberately obtuse?"

He heard Blaise and Draco snigger. Longbottom turned pink.

"N-no, but you said Tennyson—"

"—was a famous poet of the Victorian era, yes, along with Browning and Yeats. I _also_ said that they were very much overshadowed by the importance of the novel and the popularity of novelists from that time. _Do not put words in my mouth, Longbottom_."

Longbottom merely nodded, seemingly unable to force any words past the lump in his throat.

Ernie Macmillan, a loathsome boy, snickered behind a cupped hand. Severus whipped around to face the rest of the class. "I wouldn't laugh if I were you. Select few of you wrote this paper well enough to receive a passing grade; the level of intelligence this class possesses is dismal at best. As a result, I will be assigning a paper for the weekend. Three feet, single-spaced, on the influence of European Romanticism on American writers. Due Monday. Dismissed."

Seething, he watched them hurry out. He grabbed a stack of first-year essays, slammed them down on his desk, and began to grade. His movements were erratic, and jerky, and several times he stabbed holes right through the paper. By the time he had reached the end of the third essay, he couldn't remember anything it had said. He failed it anyway.

This bad mood did not improve as the day wore on. He was in a bad mood when he was forced to break up yet another altercation between Draco and Potter in the corridors—the third this week. He was in a bad mood during lunch, when Trelawney spilled water all down his front. He was still in a bad mood on the way home, when a prostitute mistook him for a customer, and he was in an especially bad mood when he realised he was out of scotch. By the time darkness had fallen, he was more than ready to end this day. He climbed into bed and pulled the covers to his chin, both hoping for and dreading slumber.

Hours later, he still lay awake in his bed, fearing sleep. It was already three weeks into term, and still the dreams hadn't stopped. Every night since the beginning of term, without fail, he dreamt of Lily. Some nights it was only flashes of red hair, or echoes of her laugh. Other nights it was full memories, relived in complete detail. He wasn't sure which was worse, but each morning he woke fully rested, and weeping.

He didn't remember falling asleep—he never did—but soon enough he found himself trapped in the past once more.

_It's winter. The snow is falling heavy and fast, and frost spreads from the edges of the windowpanes. You fiddle__ with the radio dials and tune in to a scratchy storm warning. The house is draughty, and even though you're wearing your best wool socks, your feet are cold. You're home for Christmas holidays with your father, and read mostly, because you just can't seem to fill your idle hours with anything else. That's what you are doing now, though you fade in and out of concentration. _

_A__ knock on the door to the tune of a Beatles song pulls you from the middle of your chapter__, and you know it's her. You're already running for your jacket as your father calls, "Severus! Get that!" You can tell from his voice that he's drunk, which means peanut butter and jelly for dinner again tonight. You swing open the door._

_This is a time before you love her—though even now she is your everything. Her cheeks are flushed the same red as her matching scarf and hat set, and snowflakes cling to her eyelashes._

_"You ready?" she asks breathily. _

_You don't know what __you are__ ready for, but it's Lily, so you answer, "Yes." __You pull on your jacket and fish a pair of green gloves from the coat pocket. You've had them for as long as you've known her, and they have holes in both middle fingers. She doesn't care, though, so neither do you. _

_Taking__ you by the hand, she leads you to the park, snatching two trashcan lids on the way. You are both too cold and too young to appreciate the beauty of the frosted world around you, and instead laugh at the white fog that puffs from your mouths when you speak. Lily says you are both dragons who are cursed to blow smoke instead of fire, and this pretending keeps you warm. You reach a hill that is covered in wet, untouched snow._

_"It's Mount Everest. We're explorers," she says, eyes sparkling._

_"Yeah," you say, "explorers."_

_You climb Mount Everest, snow soaking through both your trainers and socks, but that is just a necessary consequence of being an explorer. After sliding down the hill on your trash lid toboggans for what could have easily been hours but passed like minutes, you trudge back to the Evans' home, fully satisfied with the day's adventure. On the way home__, you snack on snowflakes and watch them melt on each other's tongues. Mr Evans invites you in for hot chocolate, which was__ always Lily's favourite, and you say yes. You both drink it by the fire, and your feet feel warm, even though you are not wearing any socks at all. _

He awoke panting, dried tear tracks on his face. He brought long, cupped fingers to either side of his face and fought against his leaking eyes. Still, though, tears escaped. They were bitter tears that brought no relief, so he called Albus.

Though it was early, he answered on the second ring.

"Severus?"

"I…How did you know it was me?" His voice sounded hoarse—from sleeping or crying, he couldn't tell.

"I had a hunch. When you are my age, you will understand. Now, what's troubling you?"

He wanted to say he was fine, that everything was okay, but instead he said, "I need… Can I come over later?"

"Of course, my boy. Lunch? I make a splendid chicken and ham pie."

"Yes. That would be fine." He noticed that he sounded relieved. "I'll see you then."

"Take care, Severus." Then there was nothing but the dial tone filling the silence.

Severus felt infinitely better as he made his way up the stone walk leading to Albus's home. It was warm outside, and a light breeze tousled his long, dark locks. He knocked on the door.

Albus swung it open with a grand, sweeping gesture, a smile crinkling his eyes. Snape was immediately assaulted with the sharp stench of burnt food. The air was the colour of Albus's beard.

"Ah! Severus! Just in time! Here we are," he said, thrusting a book into Severus's hands. "Just wave this about a bit, towards the windows there." He could barely make out Albus's words over the steady beeping of the fire alarm.

He flapped his arms as Albus fiddled with the smoke detector, trying to figure how to turn it off. Severus didn't know exactly how much time they spent clearing the smoke from the kitchen, but it was at least ten minutes before the beeping was quieted and the air was clean enough to see each other clearly. After tossing the charred remains of lunch behind a bush, Severus slumped into a chair, exhausted. Albus adjusted his half-moon spectacles and cleared his throat.

"It appears that I do not, in fact, make a splendid chicken and ham pie."

Severus snorted in acquisition.

Albus began rummaging through the cooler. "However, I do believe we are in luck! Molly Weasley brought over some homemade strawberry ice cream yesterday, and that is nearly better than a good chicken and ham pie," he said.

He dished each of them a generous helping, and sat across from Severus. Sunlight streamed in from the window, illuminating the thin layer of smoke still hovering in the air. They made idle chit chat, and Severus savoured the simple pleasure of cold ice cream in his mouth, warm sun on his face, and the presence of someone who was there for him. He didn't even think of the dreams until Albus steered the conversation in that direction.

"… no talent whatsoever. Except for Draco, he's decent, as is the MacDougal girl, Morag. Granger is intelligent, but her prose is horribly long-winded. Honestly, she seems to think the more she writes, the better it is." He set his half-emptied bowl aside.

"And Mr Potter?" Severus didn't miss the careful way Albus spoke, or how his attention seemed to sharpen slightly.

"Mediocre, at best. He's an arrogant, lazy child. Did you know he hasn't turned in one homework assignment yet? Not one. And he fails every test. The only reason he's passing my class right now is his essay scores—probably copied, the little miscreant. Thinks he's above it all, I'll bet. He'll be worse than his father, mark my words."

"Is it very hard for you, then? To be reminded of him? Of her?" Albus spoke gently, softly, and covered Severus's bony hand with his. Insightful bastard. Severus's gaze dropped to their hands.

Albus's hand showed the wear his spirit did not: a wrinkle for every birthday passed, every letter penned, every hour worked. The skin clung to his bones loosely, weathered and soft as a peach. It covered Severus's sallow, ink-stained hand almost completely. Severus held his gaze and stared at their hands for a moment, both thin and long-fingered, blue veins raised. They looked so similar, one an aged twin of the other, that Severus thought they could be related, a father and a son. Strangely, it was this thought that seemed to break a dam inside him. His breath came out in a rush, and his spine curled so his head was bent over the table.

"I—I should be over her by now. I _was_ over her. But then… I see him—those _eyes_—and I am just right back to where I was before." He choked on his words; his breathing became slightly ragged. "Half the time I want to cry and the other half I want to hit something. The _dreams_… And I'm angry, so angry, because he doesn't deserve those eyes. James doesn't deserve her eyes—doesn't deserve her! Sometimes I just feel so _trapped_. It's like I'm on the edge of a cliff, just teetering."

Distantly, he was aware that he sounded frantic, and he wasn't entirely sure he was making sense, but Albus shushed him, lightly stroking the back of his hand.

"I can understand how you might be feeling, my boy. The loss of a loved one can wreak havoc on a soul. Remember, though, we must try not to sink beneath our anguish, Severus, but battle on."

"Sink? How can I not sink? I look at him and see the eyes of the woman I loved in the face of a man I hated. I'm drowning," he said, voice cracking.

Albus hummed. "I know it may seem hopeless now, but things have a way of turning out all right in the end."

"Well, it's not all right."

"Then it's not the end."

"Albus, they're _dead_. It is the end." The words came out harsher than he had intended.

Albus said nothing, because the words he needed to say were not ones Severus was ready to hear. Instead, he smiled and gave Severus's hand a squeeze. As they sat, staring into rays of butter sunshine, bowls of strawberry ice cream melting between them, Severus thought that somehow, that was enough.

* * *

** A/N:** So here it is. Eons late and terribly short, I know. But with school starting up again, it was a miracle I even got this out! Even so, I am sorry for the delay, I'll work to get them out faster in the future.

Many thanks to the always wonderful** LaughableBlackStorm** for, despite her school starting as well, finding time to beta this. I owe her a gift basket or something.

Finally,_ thank you_. Thank you for the reviews, I am not even sure I can properly convey how happy they made me, or how much I appreciated them. Honestly, they easily made my week. I even went back to read them more than once, embarrassingly enough. To answer the questions in some reviews: No, it will not be a severitus. Not that I have anything against those stories, but seeing as this is a Non-Magic fic, I don't see how I can make it realistically possible, given how much he looks like James. Also Harry and Draco are both 16.

Thank you, and as always...

Read and Review!


	8. Chapter 8

Sometimes Neville Longbottom thought about killing himself.

He wasn't sure he would ever actually do it, but every once in a while, when things got especially hard, it helped to think that he could, if he wanted to. Some nights, as he lay in bed and watched the fan turn, he thought of all the different ways he could do it. He wouldn't hang himself—what if Gran was the one who found him, noosed and swinging above the ground? That wasn't fair to her. A gun sounded quick, but it was so loud, and messy. Pills were okay. So was jumping. He liked to think that maybe, in his final moments, he would feel the air rushing past him, and he would feel like he was flying. Then, he could fall into cool water and just... slip away. Yes, that sounded nice. He probably wouldn't, but still, it was nice.

He tried to imagine his funeral. Would anyone come? Gran would come, probably. Maybe they would even let his parents out of St Mungo's for the occasion. That would be nice. He'd like to think that everyone would feel bad and maybe say, "Oh, did you hear about Neville? It was such a shame, don't you think?" He liked to think they would be a little sorry for how they had acted towards him. Not a lot, just a little. They probably wouldn't, but he liked to think that way.

He didn't feel particularly sad as he thought about this. He wasn't sure what he felt, actually. The fan was spinning on the slowest setting. His covers were messed at the foot of the bed. Trevor's empty tank sat on the opposite side of the room. The sun peeked just above the horizon, orange and sleepy. He stood and stretched, listening to Gran in the kitchen downstairs. Pots and clang and sizzle and curse and morning greetings from BBC radio.

"Neville! We're going to be late!"

He sighed, and moved to the door. As he left his room, he pointedly avoided the mirror. _Uglyfatstupid_. He made his way into the kitchen, where Gran was piling bacon, eggs, and toast with marmalade onto blue plates.

"Morning, Gran."

"Morning. Eat quickly now, I want to make it there before noon."

He dutifully ate everything on his pate, keeping one hand pressed against his stomach. He could almost feel it expanding. _FatFatGreenpeaceFat._ Gran washed the dishes hurriedly, and he put on his trainers.

On the ride there, Gran asked him about school. He told her all about the test he had aced in Botany, and how Professor Sprout had even said that he was tied for top of his year in the course, rivalling Hermione Granger.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times: quit wasting your time with that nonsense. Botany," she scoffed, "it's worthless—a soft option. How are your other marks?"

Neville swallowed. "I, erm... they're..."

Gran shook her head disappointedly. "Neville, you really must try harder. Your parents were excellent students. I can't imagine you haven't inherited at least a fraction of their brains. Try to uphold the family honour."

"I...I can't help it. The letters and numbers... they all just jumble together..." His voice tapered off to a whisper. _Stupidworthlessdumbstupid._

Gran frowned, but any further comment was halted by the squeal of the brakes as they pulled into the parking lot.

He followed her past glass the double doors into the brightly lit lobby. It smelled sharp and sour, like disinfectant and rubbing alcohol and sickness and fake lemons and bleach and disposable gloves and oh, my god he was going to be sick. He clapped a hand to his mouth and tried to calm his churning stomach. No matter how many times he had been here, the smell always got to him. His swimming head cleared enough to catch the end of whatever Gran had been saying to the plump, blonde lady at the front desk.

"...Frank and Alice Longbottom. Yes, yes—we know where their room is." She impatiently scratched both of their names on the sign-in sheet. They rode the elevator to the fourth floor, and stepped out into a very, very white hallway. The sterility of it bothered him, so he ran his hands across the wall on the way to Ward 49.

Every time he saw them, it's as if he'd never seen them before. He thought he remembered what they looked like, but then he'd get here and realise that he really remember at all. He always forgot how thin their hair was, and how small they both looked in those beds. He forgot the blank looks in their eyes, and the slackness in their faces. He forgot how his father's mouth is always slightly open, and drooling. He forgot the feeling of tightness in his throat and the pressure in his chest.

He pulled a chair up between their beds.

"Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad."

His voice wavered a bit at first, but soon it grew steady as he filled them in on everything that had happened in his life since they had seen him last.

"... And there's a new kid. Harry Potter. I can't remember if I mentioned that or not. He's a real nice bloke. Quiet, but he doesn't pick on me at all. He refuses to change with all of us because of what Malfoy says to me, isn't that nice? Oh, and I almost forgot..."

He continued to hold the one-sided conversation as Gran bustled about the room, rearranging the photos on the bedside table, changing the water in the flower vase. She was humming softly, and making enough noise so that she purposely could not hear him. He talked quietly anyway, glad for the privacy. After a while, he turned to her.

"I'm going to head up to the fifth for a bite, I'm starving. You can have my chair if you'd like."

He really wasn't hungry at all, but every time they visited, he made up some excuse to tactfully give Gran time alone with his parents. She was a strong woman, and he knew she wouldn't want him to be around if she broke down. Sometimes he wished that she wasn't so hard, that maybe they could talk about this together, cope and cry with each other. He didn't think that would happen. It was okay, though, he had gotten used to being alone.

He shared the elevator with a little girl in a wheelchair, bags hanging heavy and purple under her eyes. He was squished between her parents, who donned matching bags, and a middle-aged man who carried himself as if he were ninety-five. When Neville reached the fifth floor, he headed to the buffet, and passed by the biscuits for some type of shapeless vegetable he couldn't put a name to. It tasted like carpet. He didn't stay long, but made sure to linger for at least twenty minutes before heading back down to Ward 49. He pressed his ear to the door long enough to make sure he couldn't hear any crying, and pushed it open.

"Gran?"

"Hmn? Oh, yes, I'm just about ready to go if you are. Say goodbye to your parents while I sign us out." She walked briskly from the room.

He moved to his father. "Bye, Dad. I'll see you soon." He bent over and kissed his forehead.

His father didn't respond. When he turned to his mother, he was surprised to see she was sitting upright. She slowly positioned her legs over the side of the bed, and stood. Fist outstretched, she shuffled over to him. He held open his palm. Wordlessly, she placed a gum wrapper in his hand, and turned back to bed. The corners of his lips twitched upwards; it was a good day for her.

"Thanks, Mum." He smiled completely then, put the wrapper in his pocket, and went to find Gran.

Later that evening, after all the lights had been turned off and BBC newsnight had come to a close, he pulled the little wrapper from his pocket and studied it with a fierce intensity. It was yellow, and crinkled. He smoothed it out along his palm. After several minutes of just staring at it, he slipped it into his sock drawer, along with the others.

He crawled into bed with a smile; it had been a long time since she had been well enough to have a wrapper day. Almost a month, really. It had been a yellow wrapper, too, and the nurses said she always responded well to the colour yellow. That had to mean something, right?

That night, as the fan turned slow circles above him, he didn't once think about jumping.

* * *

It was hot. Especially for early October, and the weatherman had said the spell would last well into the next week. Usually this didn't bother him, as he had always enjoyed warm weather, but in this moment, while he ran laps around the pitch, he felt like he was melting. He cursed the sun as yet another person lapped him—that was nearly the whole class, now. Neville's breathing came in short bursts, hard and heavy. His throat was burning; his legs were like lead beneath him. Finally, blessedly, Madam Hooch blew her whistle. He stumbled over to her with the rest of the boys, legs tingling. Wheezing, he noticed Harry Potter trot over to the rest of them from the other end of the pitch.

Harry didn't do class with them anymore. Apparently, he couldn't practise for some reason or other, and Madam Hooch was so desperate to get him on the team that she had set aside his gym block as a personal practise time. An upper year called Wood—Oliver, maybe?—had a free period at the same time, and since he was captain, he took it upon himself to train Harry. Sometimes when they had a break, Neville would watch Wood teach Harry how to kick a ball, and dribble, and such. Harry's face was always pinched real tight, but Neville couldn't tell if it was because he was concentrating or because he was in pain.

It was pinched now, as he jogged carefully over to them. Neville averted his gaze.

"Good work today, boys! Hit the showers—you lot smell like ruddy trolls."

Neville sniffed his armpit. Trolls were a bit of an understatement, actually.

The walk up to the changing rooms seemed to take twice as long on his wobbly legs, and the minute he got there, he collapsed on a bench. Harry did his usual routine of grabbing his clothes and heading to the bathroom stalls, but Neville couldn't even muster the energy to move.

"God, Longbottom, breathe a little louder, would you?"

Oh. He hadn't even realised he was still wheezing. Crabbe and Goyle quaffed stupidly. Probably high—they usually were.

"Yeah. It's 'cause you're fat! You're so fat that you... you... you're huge!" Goyle said, and sniggered with Crabbe. Malfoy sent scathing looks to his companions, obviously annoyed with their stupidity.

"Now, now, boys, it's not his fault his trousers could fit three of a regular person. Parents are usually to blame for fucking their kids up. In fact, that probably explains your intelligence too, doesn't it, Neville? His parents were probably siblings. If you take after them, then it's no wonder, too. Who else would screw something that looks so utterly revolt—"

He got to his feet, mouth open in an outraged snarl, ready to give it right back, say something like—

"YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP!"

For one moment, he actually thought that he had said that, but then Malfoy whipped around. Harry stood near the showers, hands clenched, frame shaking with suppressed fury.

"You don't—_don't_," he started. Malfoy arched an eyebrow. "Don't you fucking say _anything_ about people's parents!" Harry's eyes were snapping dangerously.

Draco seemed to take that as a challenge. "Oh, dear me, have I hit a sore spot with you too, Potter? I'll bet Longbottom's parents seem like a dream come true compared to yours—doesn't your mother bark?"

Harry lunged across the room. He fisted Malfoy's sweaty gym shirt in his still-shaking hands, and pinned him against the lockers with an elbow at his pale throat. Harry seemed incapable of coherent speech, his breathing almost as loud as Neville's had been earlier.

"Don't... _don't_—"

Even with the arm at his neck, Malfoy wouldn't quit. "Is that where your father met her? The pound? He—"

Harry hit him. He brought his elbow back from Malfoy's throat in a sudden, sharp movement, cocked his arm, and threw a fist right into Malfoy's pretty little right cheekbone.

_Snap!_

Malfoy's head flew to the side, smashing into the combination locks secured to the lockers. He looked up at Harry in complete surprise. He brought a hand up to touch his bloody forehead.

Neville stood rooted to the spot as Harry staggered away, dazed. Harry looked at Malfoy's rapidly swelling face in bewilderment and fear, then turned and sprinted out the door.

* * *

A/N: Remember me? I wouldn't blame you if you didn't, it's been ages. Sorry about that. I want to say that I'll update quicker, but I'm not sure I can make that promise. I've recently been named anchor to my We The People unit, and to anyone who is unfamiliar with that program, it's a huge time commitment. Also, I have my beta's free time to take into account too, I can't very well demand that she drop everything and get back to me the next day! All I can say is that I promise to _try_ and get the chapters done at least once a month, until my life slows down a bit more.

Also, just as an FYI, my story isn't going to be jumping from like 57 million different POVs, but Neville really wanted to be heard. There will be a couple Dudley-centric chapters later, but I don't think the main content will stretch too much further past Snape, Harry, and Draco.

One reviewer asked why Severus isn't a Chemistry teacher, and to be honest, I can't really say. One reason is that he teaches all the years, and Chemistry is usually only a one (sometimes two) year course. But mostly it's because thinking of writing him as anything other than an English professor makes me want to tear my hair out. Reading him as a Chemistry professor is fine, though! Other people do it wonderfully, but I know if I even tried my fingers would probably fall off or something equally horrific and disfiguring.

Lastly, thank you all so much for the reviews. Whenever I see an email that lets me know I have one I just get the most amazing feeling. It's incredible to think that someone is taking time out of their day to give me feedback. Please know that it does not go unappreciated.

As always... Read and Review!

(P.S. Sorry for the long author's note. That's kind of obnoxious. I'll work on that.)


	9. Chapter 9

_Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. Nonononono. _He tore up the hill, not paying any attention to where he was going, but needing to get far, far away from the changing rooms. He couldn't believe he had just done that. He had just _hit_ someone. Hit Malfoy in his face, when he hadn't even done anything to him, not really. Oh god, he had _hit_ him. He was out of control, walking around _hitting_ people; he should be put away, locked up. His uncle was right, he didn't belong with normal people; what normal person went around _hitting_ people? He was no better than his uncle was.

As that thought struck him, his knees gave and he was suddenly, violently ill. Cloudy, bitter bile spewed from his throat, his stomach trying to expel something that wasn't there.

He ran shaking fingers through his hair. He was even worse than his uncle, really. His uncle only hit him because he deserved it; it was his fault, mostly, but Malfoy— Malfoy hadn't done anything! _Oh no oh god oh— _His body gave way to another round of heaving, but only frothy spittle trickled from the corner of his mouth.

What would happen to him now? They would expel him, surely, but then what? Fuck. What if his relatives didn't want him after this? What if they decided they didn't feel safe living with a boy who had violent tendencies and they sent him away? What if they put him in the orphanage? He couldn't go to the orphanage; he knew what happened to people like him in places like that. Maybe if he was really, really good, and never asked for food or water again, and did all his chores on time, and never spoke again, and offered to sleep in the shed or outside if they wanted, and he did every single thing they said, then— then maybe they would keep him. But what if that still wasn't enough? He couldn't go to the orphanage— he couldn't!

He was suddenly aware that he couldn't breathe. His throat was closing; he couldn't get enough air! Was it Vernon, choking him? His chest was clenching spastically and it was much too tight. His thin frame shook violently, twitching and shuddering at odd intervals. If only he could get some _air_, then everything would be all right. Everything was spinning and flashing, he was so dizzy, and he clenched his eyes shut. His limbs were tingling, they were going numb.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. He ripped away, flinching. Some logical part of his brain told him that he was fine, that Vernon wasn't choking him, that he wasn't even anywhere near him, but in that moment, for some nonsensical reason, he had thought that his uncle was already here, ready to punish him.

"…arry? Can you hear me?"

Oh, _Neville_. He would recognise that timid voice anywhere. It was Neville— not Vernon— just Neville. He gulped at the air, swallowing too much in nearly hysterical relief.

"Come on; let's get you home."

He was still shaking as Neville led him up the grassy hills to the castle, and his breathing was still slightly erratic, but he felt his panic ebbing away.

"Just breathe, in and out, that's it. I used to have panic attacks too; all you have to do is breathe, promise. In…out…in…"

He worked to control his breathing, listening to Neville's reassuring murmurs. He was fine. Whatever they did to him, he would get through it. He could be strong. No reason to have a meltdown. God, how pathetic.

Neville helped him to the train, but he was so dazed he barely even registered Neville's kindness. He led Harry to an empty compartment and hovered in the door frame. He placed his bag next to him, and Harry realised absently that Neville must have grabbed it from the changing rooms for him.

"Are you okay now? I can stay if you want me to…" Neville trailed off hesitantly.

God, did he really look that weak? He needed to pull himself together. He didn't feel totally calm just yet, but he couldn't make Neville stay with him. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. You can go if you'd like. I'm fine now."

Neville studied him for a moment, before deciding something. He sat down across from Harry and opened a thick, boring-looking book titled _Water Plants of the Mediterranean. _ "Well, I hope you don't mind if I stay anyway."

Harry couldn't describe why he felt immense relief at this, but he did. They sat in silence for a while, Neville reading his book and Harry looking out the window, but it didn't feel particularly uncomfortable. Just as the train was nearing its destination, Neville cleared his throat.

"I…I just want you to know that—that I really appreciate what you did. Back there. For me. It means a lot…more than you could know. So, um, thanks, I guess. For that."

Harry smiled, surprising himself. He didn't do that much anymore. "Yeah, course. It was nothing." Of course, it wasn't nothing, and his life was possibly falling to pieces because of it, but Neville didn't need to know that. If Harry was kicked out of school and his relatives' home, it wasn't Neville's fault. They exchanged hesitant but friendly goodbyes, and Harry left with conflicting emotions raging inside him.

When he was younger, he used to secretly hope that when he cracked open eggs for breakfast he might one day find a baby chick inside. He had planned an elaborate scheme of how he would wash it off, and raise it indoors, and then…then he'd finally have a friend. In retrospect, it was stupid, but as he stood in the cold at the bus stop, he couldn't help hoping that maybe Neville Longbottom could be that baby chick. Maybe he would finally have a friend in Neville.

While these happy thoughts and strange bursts of pleasure rolled around inside his chest, his abdomen roiled in fear at what was to come.

Even if he was lucky enough that his uncle didn't find out tonight, he knew it was only a matter of time. Vernon wasn't sadistic, but he always tended to go a bit overboard anytime Harry called unwanted attention to himself, or lashed out at someone else. Once, when he was nine, Dudley had cornered him behind the shed outside. Harry had panicked and, in a rare show of bravery, had lashed out and hit Dudley in the face. He was too weak and too skinny to do any real damage, but his uncle had been _incensed_. Late that night, Harry had been pulled from his cupboard and into the garage, where Vernon had snapped each finger of the offending hand. They still twinged whenever it rained. What would his uncle do now, then, when he had both called attention to himself and hit someone? A shudder that had nothing to do with the cold ran through him.

He looked up and started. The bus was here. He didn't know how, but every day it just seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was a tall, purple bus with remarkably little business, and for whatever reason, the conductor let him ride for free. The doors squeaked open.

"'Arry! 'Op on now, we got a busy day. Madam Marsh 'as gotta go now soon, she's got somefink in Wales to get to. A weddin'? "

He stepped onto the bus and slid into the third row, right behind a very green-looking Madam Marsh. The bus jolted violently, and with a loud bang they were off. It banged and squealed at random intervals throughout the ride, which was rocky, as usual, and much too fast. Stan was a pimply kid who only looked eighteen or nineteen at most, and after a particularly ominous teeter, Harry couldn't help wondering when he had gotten his license.

"'Ow many days until 'alf-term 'ols? Less than a month, righ'?"

Stan usually tried to talk with him. Maybe that was why he let Harry ride for free. Maybe he just got lonely. Harry coughed a little. "Er, yes. Two weeks left."

Stan turned to look at him, and the bus took out a mailbox. Stan didn't seem to notice. "You goin' somewhere wif your family on 'oliday?"

Harry nearly laughed. "No. We're not going anywhere together."

He hoped the Dursleys would go somewhere, even if he didn't get to tag along; it would be nice to have their house to himself for a bit, or be sent to Mrs Figg's.

Their conversation ended abruptly after Stan nearly hit a biker and turned to watch the road more closely ("Mad, they are. Never watch where they're going or nuffink!"). The ride was still was still precariously fast and rocky, though.

While the ride was far from enjoyable, he couldn't help panicking as he reached his stop. Had the school already called? Malfoy and Snape were pretty chummy, so he, at least, had to know by now. He swallowed as he neared the door, and braced himself. He opened it, but was met with silence. Usually by now the telly or the radio was going, and Aunt Petunia would greet him with a list of chores.

He padded into the kitchen, and noticed a note on the table.

_We are finalists in the All-England Best-Kept Lawn competition, and are going to the ceremony tonight. We will be back at 9. Your chores should be done by then._

They hadn't left a list of chores, so he just guessed they wanted him to do the regular ones, and moved to the sink to clean the dirty dishes piled there from Petunia's lunch. It took him no time at all, and he decided to fix himself a sandwich now, while he was sure they were out.

Hours later, after the leaves had been raked, all the rooms dusted, and the kitchen and loos cleaned, Harry sat in the laundry room, folding clean linens with aching arms. His head kept dipping towards his chest, and his eyelids felt impossibly heavy. It had been a long day. Then, just as he was folding the last fitted sheet, a car door slammed.

He tensed automatically. Did they know? He lifted the basket with shaking hands and carried it up the stairs to the hall closet. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon came in loudly; Petunia was squawking about how her lawn was _much_ better than that tramp-of-a-winner's, and next year she'd show them, she would. Harry sighed and imagined the increased yard work that would mean for him. He carried the basket down to the laundry room, still slightly trembling.

"Boy!" his uncle called. This was the decisive moment, then. Either the headmaster had already called about his expulsion, or he would have one more day before everything fell apart.

He took a deep breath. "Yes, sir?" His voice was steady.

"Get me some Brandy, and some tea for your aunt. She's had a long day." Petunia shot a grateful look at her husband.

Immensely relieved, Harry went to fix his relatives their drinks. The urge to laugh in relief bubbled in his gut, and he delivered them with a teary half-smile. Petunia glared at him suspiciously.

"…not _your_ fault of course. It's the boy's." Harry tensed, the lightness in his chest tapering off a bit. His uncle stood and turned to him, glass clenched tightly in his hand. "You're lucky I'm tired, or you'd be getting the belt tonight. Lazing about in the garden—it's no wonder we lost."

"Sorry, sir."

Vernon swung the back of his hand onto Harry's face, and his neck whipped around. Oh. Though that was expected, he was momentarily caught off guard. "You had better be sorry. Now get in your cupboard."

Slightly dazed, Harry slipped into the cupboard, listening to the muffled sound of Vernon comforting Petunia. He fell onto his bed immediately and didn't even take off his glasses as he slipped into slumber, his sleep plagued with worries about the day to come.

* * *

His worries were not assuaged the next morning. The train ride was a nightmare. Neville sat with him again and tried to make small talk, but Harry was so nervous that he answered everything he said in curt, one word answers. Eventually Neville just stopped trying, and Harry felt slightly guilty. Not enough to strike up conversation, though.

It appeared his worry was justified, for the moment he entered the school, Snape was waiting for him.

The man was livid. His features were demented, twisted in rage. He looked inhuman. Dark eyes cut him into pieces, and Harry stood rooted to the spot as Snape stalked over to him, lip curled back in a vicious snarl. _Fuck_. Snape grabbed his bicep and yanked him up a staircase.

"_Potter_," Snape said, his voice dangerously low. "I know you think you are somehow immune to the consequences of your actions, but that is not the case at Hogwarts. I know you hit Draco. Violence is not tolerated here. Do you have anything to say for yourself?" He was jerked roughly around so he was facing Snape. "Hm? Anything?"

"N-no, sir. Nothing, sir." He wondered if Snape could hear his heart beating; it seemed impossibly loud.

Suddenly, Snape was walking again. "I'll have you expelled for this, mark my words. Charges will be pressed, oh yes. You'll spend the next years of your life behind bars, Potter." Snape's voice was heated, fervent. They passed an ugly gargoyle, climbed a spiral staircase, and came to rest in front of a tall door. Snape gave him an ugly smile, eyes glinting, and knocked three times.

"Enter."

Snape swung open the door, and, still gripping Harry's arm, glided into the room. It was a strange room, filled with unique trinkets Harry had never seen before. In the center was a large desk and behind it an old, old man. He knew this to be the headmaster, as he had seen the man from afar in the Great Hall, but this was the first time he had ever been given the opportunity to see him up close. He wore a silver beard that stretched to his waist and half-moon spectacles perched upon a crooked nose. His eyes, a bright blue, were kind and soft, like a grandfather's probably were. For some strange reason, Harry felt himself calm.

"Ah, Severus. What seems to be the problem?" The headmaster steepled his fingers beneath his chin and peered at them questioningly.

"The boy is a menace, headmaster! He assaulted another student yesterday, and the victim sustained significant injuries. That is against the school rules, he needs to be expelled!" Significant injuries? Harry had only hit him in the face. He didn't think that was very significant.

The headmaster turned a piercing gaze onto Harry. "Is this true, Harry? Did you attack someone?"

Harry was floored. He was asking him for his side of the story? He would have to answer truthfully of course, especially with Snape right there, but—wow. His primary school teachers had usually just believed Dudley right off.

"Yes, sir. I punched Draco Malfoy in the face."

Harry watched the headmaster's eyes grow somber. "Why did you do that, Harry?"

_Because he deserved it._ He didn't say that, though; instead he just shrugged. The headmaster continued to stare expectantly at him, and it soon become clear that a shrug would not suffice.

"Well, he, uh, well… He called my mother a dog, sir."

The headmaster turned to Snape, and Harry noted with surprise that the man's expression had shifted from one of intense anger to a lost, almost aghast one.

"Take a seat, Harry."

So this was it, then. They were expelling him. He had prepared himself for this, but he hadn't expected it to be so disappointing.

"Fighting is strictly against the school policies."

Harry felt his stomach drop to his knees, and he grew frustrated with himself. He had expected this—he didn't need to get so emotional.

"That being said, I see no reason to expel you."

"What? Headmaster!" Snape looked murderous. Harry felt hope soar in him; it clogged his throat, filled his chest, and stretched to his fingertips.

The headmaster ignored him. "You will, of course, need to deal with the consequences. I think two weeks of detention should do it. Severus, please inform Mr Malfoy that he, too, will be punished for his actions. Four days of detention—served together, I think."

That was it? Oh, thank _god_. He was so lucky.

"Oh, and Mr Potter, if anything of this nature ever occurs again, I will have no choice but to expel you. You and Mr Malfoy may report to Mr Filch for your detentions, starting this afternoon."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

"If that's all, Severus, I think young Harry here should be free to go." The headmaster smiled at him. He returned it quickly, and ducked out of the room before he could change his mind.

He sprinted down the stairs and to his class, heart light and pressing up against his ribs. He could feel a goofy half-smile on his face, and schooled it into a mask of indifference before stepping into his second period, art. Their professor, Trelawney, was a batty woman with glasses that made her eyes look significantly larger than the rest of her face, and her wardrobe seemed to consist entirely of long, flowing shawls. She gave him a quick lecture on how his tardiness was "disrupting the mind's eye" and would prevent the other students from fully tapping into their artistic potential. Hermione Granger snorted.

He sat and scanned the room for Malfoy. Finally, he spotted him near the back, his white-blond hair poking out from behind the easel that eclipsed his face. He wondered what "significant injuries" Malfoy had sustained from his little breakdown. Then, Malfoy shifted in his seat and Harry was greeted with an uninhibited view of the damage he had caused.

Malfoy's face was grotesque, his eye purpled obscenely. It was swollen to an alarming degree, sealing the eye shut between the mounds of flesh. He had an ugly gash on the other side of his face near his temple, which had scabbed over to an angry red line. Maybe he had felt Harry's gaze, because he turned to meet it with a hard glare. The fury in those eyes was unsettling, and Harry tore his gaze away and stared at the blank white of his canvass for a long moment.

He was going to have to serve detention with Malfoy, who clearly hated him, tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day. Fucking hell.

* * *

A/N: Hi guys, sorry about the delay. Reality got the best of me again. The We The People program has been consuming my every waking moment (but not without payoff! We won districts!). Also, I recently celebrated my birthday! For some reason, this was a difficult chapter to write, I scrapped it several times, so sorry if it seems awkward. Sometimes, when rewriting your own work you can lose an objective eye.

Which is why I owe so many thanks to my beta, Laughableblackstorm who is continually thorough and insightful. She has an unmatched eye for detail.

And thanks again for all the reviews. I am eternally grateful. I'm not sure if it is gauche or rude to not respond individually to reviewers, I've seen some do it and some not. But I would like to thank Sanje for his constructive criticism (I like to think I am growing as I write this! I hope to become even better). Also I would like to say that, quickster12, this is going to get worse before it gets better, sorry! But I will keep that in mind and try to make sure the angst isn't too much. Lastly, herpderp14, I can absoloutly recommend more! One of my favorites is called "Incurable", by Warholhp. It's fantastic. It's on Livejournal, not FanFiction, so you'll have to google search it, but it is a great read. It was actually that story that pushed me to write, as I had always imagined Hogwarts without magic, but was to cowardly to put the pen to the paper. Some other great ones are "Draco's Boy" by Empathic Siren, or "Freaks and Geeks" by Hello Moto. If you like those, PM me and I can rec some more! (P.S. It's not annoying to demand a swift update! It's the delays that are annoying! My bad!)

Gah. Another ridiculously long author's note. I think I will just leave these long and then remove them all at the completion of the story.

As always... Read & Review!


	10. Chapter 10

He smoothed down one last flyaway strand with his fingers and made sure his hair was styled to perfection. After rinsing off the excess gel from his hands under cold water from the sink in his bathroom, he ran his hands down the breast of his suit—the finest Twilfitt and Tatting's had to offer, tailored precisely. After all, nothing less for a Malfoy. He practised smiling a few times in the mirror before leaving his room.

Friday family dinners always made him nervous. It was usually the only time of the week that he saw his father, save for Sunday mass. This meant his father would interrogate him about his schoolwork, sports, and anything else that his father deemed important. Draco was never able to meet his father's standards, and even though he knew what was coming, it was always crushing and embarrassing. Nevertheless, he knew that one day, if he tried hard enough, his father would be proud of him. He just knew it.

He made his way into the dining room, where his father sat at the head of the table, his mother opposite him. The far side of the room was a wall of windows, opened to a picturesque view of the grounds, and shed a fair amount of light into the room but cast his mother's face in shadows. The table was long and made of a dark, glossy wood. Paintings hung on either side of the table, ornate frames upon detailed gold and white wallpaper. It was all perfect. Pristine. He took his seat on the left side of the table and placed his napkin on his lap, though the chances of him spilling anything were slim.

They were Malfoys, after all.

His father helped himself to some caramelised pears, cleared his throat, and dabbed at the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "So, Draco, how are your studies coming?"

Draco sat up a little straighter. "They're going well, Father. Professor Snape recently told me that I am first in his class by quite a bit, and second in my year overall."

"But not first?" his father asked.

Draco shook his head. Though dejected, his face remained impassive. Inside Draco was supposed to be different than Outside Draco, he had learned that at a young age. His father gave a little sigh, and Draco felt a lump in his throat.

"Pity. Well, you will just have to work on that, won't you?"

"Yes, Father." God, how was it that his father always made him feel like utter shit?

"What about football? I understand your first game is this weekend?" Draco nodded. "And you will be playing…?"

Draco quickly swallowed the piece of quail he had been chewing and managed to cough out, "Durmstrang." His father's lip curled at the uncouth display.

"That will be an interesting match. I look forward to seeing how you match up against that Krum boy."

Draco wrung his hands beneath the table. He hadn't yet figured out how to tell his father that it was Potter who would be starting, not him. Potter was fucking fantastic, no one could touch him, and seeing as both he and Draco played the same position, he would be lucky if he got to put one foot on the field this weekend. He steeled himself and met his father's eyes.

"I am unsure if I will be playing that much for the Durmstrang game. We have a new player who could be starting in my stead."

"I see."

There was a beat of tense silence before Draco's mother spoke up. "Pansy called for you today, dear. Something about getting together this weekend."

Draco grimaced slightly, and it did not go unnoticed by his father. "Draco?" he prodded, face expressionless, tone commanding. Father was always commanding.

"Well... Pansy and I are... no longer seeing each other. Like that."

"Why _not_?" his father asked sharply. "She is a respectable girl from a respectable family. If this is about that _summer_..."

"No! No it's got nothing to do with... _that_." Draco cringed. He hated it when his father mentioned that summer.

His mother tittered nervously. "See, dear, he said it didn't have anything to do with that. He doesn't have any of those urges anymore, right Draco?"

"Right." He nodded.

"Good," said his father. "It wouldn't do to have you embarrass the family name yet _again_ with those disgusting tendencies."

For some reason, he suddenly thought of Potter, his face flushed as he pinned Draco to the lockers.

His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm cured now, though. You sent me to that camp, remember? With the conversion therapy? I'm cured now." He hoped his father wouldn't pick up on the note of desperation in his voice.

_That_ summer. The summer that had changed everything. It never failed to pull him into a whirlwind of memories, and for once he was glad that there was so much silence at these family dinners, as his mind took him back.

He had been fifteen, and the farthest he had gone was a truth or dare kiss with Daphne Greengrass that had been the talk of the school for two weeks. There hadn't even been any tongue, and Daphne had slobbered all over his chin in a way that had turned Draco off kissing. Well, at least until that summer. Draco had been in the stables when he saw him. Archer Beasley. His father had hired him as a groundsman after Frank Bryce, the previous one, had passed away. Archer Beasley had dark hair and dark skin and a crooked smile. Archer had been eighteen, and Draco had thought he was straight. He wasn't. Archer had shown him things that Daphne Greengrass could only dream of; there were so many ways to kiss—slow and building and melting into each other, or quick and stolen and darting. Each gave him unprecedented thrills of pleasure. Within a week, he had learned to suck cock, after much demonstration on Archer's part. After a month, he had lost his virginity, sweating and moaning in a hay pile. It had hurt, yes, but Archer was a gentle boy, and it had been wonderful as well. Half a month later, the press had discovered them "engaged in homosexual practices", ruining his father's reputation, and quite a few business deals as well.

He'd been sent away, after. To a rehabilitation camp that was supposed to cure him of the "disease of homosexuality". Bible-beating lunatics, all of them. Maybe these camps cured some people, but definitely not Draco. He'd pretended he was a new man, though, and came out proclaiming his deep reverence for women and all things heterosexual. He'd even tried dating Pansy for a while. That hadn't lasted long, though; listening to her talk was an experience akin to having one's ears removed with a cheese-grater. In the end though, the Malfoy name had been restored, and that's what mattered.

"Just see that you don't fall back on those bad habits, Draco."

Habits. As if Draco's sexual orientation was synonymous with biting his nails. Nothing more was said, the four more courses only interspersed with the grating sound of silverware on china.

* * *

The following Monday, his bruise had almost healed, just a splotch of yellow on his otherwise pale face. The thing had appeared grotesque before, like something out of a film, but it wasn't as bad as it looked. Draco's skin, which had never toughened and was still baby-soft, bruised like a peach. He walked into the castle with a spring in his step, refreshed and recharged after a relaxing weekend at the manor. By lunch, however, his mood had dampened considerably.

Severus had been cold to him all day, and he didn't know why. When Draco had greeted him in the morning, he had been ignored. Confused, he'd brushed it off. Maybe Severus hadn't heard him. In class, though, whenever he had raised his hand, Severus's eyes had swept right across him as if he hadn't been there. Eventually, he had just lowered his arm and tucked it near his chest, bewildered and slightly hurt. What had he done? Why was his godfather acting like this? This uncertainty had tormented him all day, making any form of concentration an impossibility. At lunch, instead of heading to the Great Hall with the rest of his friends, he made his way to Severus's room, hoping for some answers. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and poked his head inside.

"Uncle Severus?" he ventured. Damn this timidy. Severus was the only one whom he could never control his emotions around. At least with his father he could try to pretend nothing fazed him; save for any discussion about that summer, he usually could manage to avoid seeming weak.

Severus looked up, eyes hard. "Yes, Mr Malfoy?"

Draco recoiled. It seemed he was Mr Malfoy, now, instead of Draco. He slipped into the room and shut the door behind him softly. He took hesitant steps towards Severus.  
"I was just wondering why you are mad at me?" It came out like a question.

Something flashed behind Severus's eyes and he sighed, lightly pinching the bridge of his nose. "Have a seat, Draco."

Draco sat. The cushion on the seat under him was hard, but yielded under his weight. Draco looked away from Severus and studied the room instead, afraid of what he would see in his godfather's eyes. The room was bare: bare stone walls, desk bare except for two stacks of essays upon it, and a black coat draped over an otherwise bare chair. No pictures, nothing. Draco had come to learn that Severus was a man that kept everything close to his chest. He doubted whether the man even had pictures or anything personal up in his own home. Suddenly, Severus cleared his throat, startling Draco, and looked at him shrewdly.

"You called Harry Potter's mother a dog, yes?"

Draco bristled. "Potter? This is about _Potter_?" He was suddenly intensely irked. Potter was managing single-handedly to make every single part of his life unbearable. First football, now this? "So what if I did?"

Severus looked at him for a moment, eyes deep and black. Draco glared right back, any trace of nervousness evaporated by the fire behind his eyes.  
"What do you know about Potter's parents?" Severus asked.

Draco blinked, taken aback. "Nothing." He crossed his arms. "But I don't see why it even matters," he added curtly.

Severus nodded as if he had expected as much. He had not broken eye contact, and it was making Draco uncomfortable. "This is not any of your business, and normally I would not divulge such information to you, but taking into consideration your recent remarks to him, it is only prudent that you should know." He closed his eyes briefly. Draco felt more confident now that that unfathomable gaze wasn't upon him. When Severus's eyes opened again, they looked strangely determined. "Potter's parents are dead."

Draco was floored. _Dead_?

"Murdered, by a drug lord. It was a horrible tragedy."

Oh, god. Draco shook his head, dazed.

"It happened when he was quite young; he never knew them." Severus's tone was decidedly even, journalistic.

Draco was aware that his mouth was hanging open stupidly, and he had to consciously shut it.

"He lives with his aunt now, and is no doubt spoiled endlessly, but that is beside the point. Do you understand now, why your words were unacceptable?"

Draco nodded wordlessly. Severus returned the nod in a satisfied manner.

Draco felt sick. Potter's parents were dead, _murdered_, and he... oh, god. He had called Potter's dead mother a dog. He felt the swollen area around his eye, but any resentment he had harboured was eclipsed by horror at what he had just heard. He swallowed painfully.  
Severus eyes seemed to soften a bit, and flicked towards Draco's guilty face with an unreadable expression. "However, while your actions are in no way excusable, my demeanour towards you this morning was not particularly... condonable. I care for you deeply, Draco."

Draco smiled, knowing that this was Severus's obscure way of apologising.

"It's okay. I should get to the Hall now, you know, lunch and all."

They parted ways, Draco with much to think about.

* * *

However, thoughts about Harry Potter's past had mostly left his mind by the end of the day, and Draco was left only with a seething resentment towards Potter and the headmaster. Detention? Come on. It had been a pretty prickish thing for him to do, considering Potter's parents were dead and all, but it wasn't as if he had _known_. It wasn't as if he'd said it on _purpose_.

The water pressure in the boy's showers was always just high enough to sting when it hit him, and the temperature was either much too hot or much too cold, there was never any in between. The boys suspected it was the school's way of making sure they didn't dally in the showers, and usually, it worked. Now, however, Draco relished the cold spray, for it helped to cool the hot frustration coiling in the pit of his stomach. He was still in the showers after all the other boys in his class had left, but it wasn't like he had anything to hurry to. _Detention._ God. Why should he have detention when Potter was the one who had been throwing punches? Not just one detention either, but four fucking days' worth. It was ridiculously infuriating.

Potter didn't seem too chuffed about it either. He was sprawled on the bench, arms crossed, feet wide apart. Potter glared daggers at him, as if this was somehow _his_ fault. God, Draco hated him.

"Finished with your beauty routine, Malfoy? Took you long enough."

Draco smirked. "At least I _have_ a routine, Potter. You looked like you'd just crawled out of the gutter. How do you even afford Hogwarts? You bending over for strangers in Knockturn Alley?"

"Fuck off, Malfoy," he said, almost lazily, "you're such an arse."

They walked up to the castle unhurriedly, each dreading the detention to come.

Draco rubbed his palms down his jeans, brow creased. He stole a glance at Potter and pursed his lips. He felt an odd mix of intense pity and strong loathing. He wondered what it was like to be an orphan. They continued the rest of the way in silence.

When they got to Filch, he greeted them with a leer. Draco had only ever seen him twice before, and had forgotten how truly ugly the man was. His hair was stringy and dirty, face pouchy and pasty, with pale, bulging eyes.

"Follow me," he said, almost lewdly. He led them through a number of hallways and staircases to the trophy room. They were told they would be cleaning all the trophies, awards, cups, plates, shields, statues, and medals in the room as their punishment. As Filch gave them cleaning supplies, he muttered, "I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh? Oh, yes… hard work and pain are the best teachers, if you ask me… It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out… Hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well-oiled in case they're ever needed… I've been telling Dumbledore for years and years he's too soft with you all. You filthy little beasts would never have mucked up my nice floors if you'd known I had it in my power to whip you raw, would you, now?"

Potter shot him an unreadable glance. Draco aimed a kick at Filch's cat. The ugly little thing kept making circles around their ankles. It probably found this funny, Draco thought. He gave it another half-hearted shove with his foot.

Filch was still talking. "Right, off we go, and don't think of running off, now. It'll be worse for you if you do."

Potter's breathing had sped up, and when Filch had left he turned to Draco with wild eyes. "They won't let him do that, will they?"

God, Potter really was an idiot if he believed the _great_ and _noble_ Dumbledore would let Filch brutalise his students. Looking at Potter's stressed expression, though, he realised that was exactly what Potter thought. He decided to have some fun.

"Well... Private schools have different rules than public schools, so he might be able to do that..." He trailed off, plastering an uncertain look on his face. Potter's breathing picked up even faster.

"Oh god. He can hurt us, can't he? No one's going to stop him, no one ever stops them. He's going to whip us! You heard him! We—"

Draco hid a smile. "Us? What do you mean _us_? I'm a _Malfoy_. My father is on the school board. Filch isn't doing any of that to _me_."

At this, Potter sank to the floor, breathing harshly. Draco felt a little guilty.

"Come on, Potter, don't be a nancy." Potter didn't move. Draco was filled with both qualms and frustration. "Ugh, fine, they can't! I was kidding, all right? They can't do any of that to you."

Potter looked up, embarrassment and fire swimming in his eyes. He leapt to his feet, and shoved Draco hard against a glass case. "That was not fucking funny, Malfoy! What are you playing at? Prick."

Draco laughed. "Come on, let's get to work."

They toiled for hours. Well, Potter toiled. Draco mostly explored the room and looked at all the different awards. They were everywhere, stacked on shelves, protected in large glass cases, some even just sitting on the floor. He was looking at all the framed pictures in one of the sports cases when something caught his eye.

"Oi, Potter! Get over here!"

"What do you want?"

Draco scrambled to his feet and went over to Potter. He was hunched over one of those house cups from when Hogwarts had been a boarding school, cleaning it with a rag and polisher.

"I found something you might want to take a look at."

Potter gave a sigh and hauled himself up, looking at Draco expectantly. He led Potter over to the opened sports case and handed him a plaqued picture. It was of the 1974 football team, a boy called James Potter sitting front and center. The resemblance between the Potter pictured and the Potter beside him was uncanny; Draco had immediately known they were related.

"Look at the front row, in the middle there? Do you know him?"

But Potter didn't respond. He had the picture held up close to his face, eyes wide. He brought one trembling hand up to the glass, touched James Potter's face, and then pulled away as if burned. He moved the plaque close; his nose was touching it, his breath fogging up his glasses and the picture. Draco felt very uncomfortable, as if he had walked in on Potter during a private moment. He realised very suddenly that James Potter must be Harry Potter's father. Harry Potter's father who had been murdered. Oh, fuck. Draco had to look away from him. The anger he had felt toward Potter all day was completely gone now. He actually almost felt bad for Potter.

"Potter?" Potter startled as if he had been snapped back to reality, pulled from a deep part of himself. "Potter? Are you o—"

But he didn't get to finish his sentence because Potter launched himself at Draco. He had Draco pinned up against the pillar behind him so suddenly that Draco barely had time to register what had happened. Potter's hand, which Draco had never noticed was very thin, was wrapped around his throat, though he exerted no pressure on Draco's neck. Draco was bewildered; this was not even close to a normal, expected reaction.

"What the hell, Pott—"

Potter kissed him.

It wasn't tender or sweet or anything Draco had come to associate with kissing in those stolen moments with Archer during that summer; it was hard and rough and punishing.

It was more of an attack than a display of affection, and it was unlike anything Draco had ever experienced before. Draco couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but stand there until Potter pulled away with an unreadable expression on his face. They stood like that for a moment. It could have been an hour, it could have been less than a second, he couldn't tell. It was as if time had frozen. He noticed that Potter's glasses had slipped down his nose a bit, and it was that strange, small detail that unfroze time, that caused something indescribable in him to shift very suddenly. He pushed Potter against a case, sending several trophies toppling over in his haste, and then his lips closed around Potter's once more. They battled for dominance, warring with their mouths. He felt a moan deep in his throat when Potter pulled him closer, mashing their hips together, the corner of the plaque still in Potter's hand digging into his back. Draco hand slipped around the back of Potter's neck and held him in place as they devoured each other by tongue and... oh, god, was that teeth?

Then, suddenly, Potter shoved him away. He staggered back, almost falling, and when he looked up into Potter's flushed face, he couldn't help bringing a hand to his tingling lips. He realised he wasn't breathing. Potter's face flickered from emotion to emotion, before he finally turned away from Draco and walked towards the door, slower than a run but fast enough to be unnatural. Before he left, he turned to Draco, who was still rooted to the spot, fingers lingering on his still warm, still wet lips, and said:

"I still hate you."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

A/N: Hey all, time for my customary apology about being late. Sorry about the delay! We The People had picked up in intensity, and I had practices for three hours a day, every day. So if anyone has a question about Constitutional Law (or anything even remotely relating to the constitution, really), I can help! Hahaha. Unfortunately, we came in second place by two-tenths of a percent (The point spread is 1080. We lost by 2 points), so that means no nationals for us. I don't think I can properly convey exactly how devastating this was for my team (We've won states the past 9 years, and were expected to win again this year, as one of the best teams the program has had), so I won't try. There are two up-sides to this though, one being that now I will have a break to try and update faster before track begins, and secondly, my unit placed first in the state by a wide margin, even if my team didn't (Which is indescribably frustrating).

So many thanks to Laughableblackstorm, who I'm pretty sure got this chapter back to me in record time, and made my day doing it. (:

Also many thanks to all who reviewed. I still can't believe that someone is taking time out of their day to let me know that they like my story. It's unfathomable. Thank you thank you thank you. I can't say it enough. THANK YOU!

Alice249- Thanks so much! That's weird that your account doesn't work. I'm not sure if you are interested in just non-magic or not, so here is one of those: "Thirteenth to Fifth" by The Wykkd is a WiP that I'm enjoying immensely, so I would definetly say go check that out! It's difficult to find completed non-magics, I'm always hunting, so that is all I can think of off the top of my head, but if you are interested in reading things other than non-magic, drop me a line!

Herpderp14- I hope you got my PM (the response would have been just way too long to post here!) Let me know if you didn't!

An especially big thanks to SeveralSunlitDays7 for leaving such a kind review (You rock!).

As always, read and review :)


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